Pretty
by faepunk
Summary: Complete. Michael had many secrets. Everybody wanted a piece…and all he wanted was to save his brother, get his girl, and be normal, for once. Not the 'pretty boy', and not the man who was hiding all those secrets. But nothing keeps forever, even secrets.
1. Chapter 1

T-bag waited, holding the jagged knife in his hand. Caressing it. That boy was going to pay. And T-bag was going to enjoy every last second of it.

Abruzzi stood in front of him, watching him fondle the knife. He wondered what was going through the Sicilian's head. Not that it mattered. Abruzzi would get what he wanted, T-bag would get what was his, by right, and Scofield…well, Scofield would get what he deserved.

The door crashed open suddenly, Scofield's eyes were bright with fear, and his body was tense, shoulders hunched nearly to his ears, arms clenched to his sides in terror. That beautiful, lean body…what T-bag would do to that body. He flicked his tongue over his lips, the heady aphrodisiac of fear tingling in his veins.

Abruzzi spoke first, just as they'd planned. "Easy now, Fish. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be." He turned slowly to face Scofield. "It's time we came to an arrangement, don't you think?"

T-bag took his cue, stepping out from behind Abruzzi. He knew his intentions were clear enough; if even half the lust he felt was displayed on his body, Scofield knew what was about to happen. He saw Scofield's eyes narrow, like he was trying to look tough, rather than frightened. It didn't work. T-bag let a lazy smile drift over his mouth.

"You know, I was thinking I was gonna gut you bow to stern as soon as I laid eyes on you," T-bag drawled, slowly sauntering forward, enjoying the fear in the man's eyes. Somehow, those beautiful blue eyes stayed on his. He stopped mere inches from his face. Scofield didn't flinch; T-bag wondered how much self-control it took for this boy to just stay still. "But alackaday, you look so pretty when you're scared, don't you?"

Then his eyes dropped down, just for a second. T-bag felt a jolt of victory, looking at the shadows those long, pretty lashes cast against his cheeks. He wanted to touch that face suddenly, that pretty face. The eyes snapped back onto his, and he smirked, turning away to face Abruzzi.

"Maybe we ought to get the love out of the way before we move on to the hate," T-bag said, feeling Scofield's tension behind him. He turned back to face him. "What do you say to that, Pretty? Hm?" He made a kissing noise and licked his lips, and saw a flash of revulsion mix with the terror in those eyes. Beautiful. He took a step backwards, not wanting to miss anything those eyes were giving him. "Yeah."

"Yeah, maybe it's time I lit up that leather," T-bag said, slapping down the knife, "once and for—ah!"

T-bag didn't see Abruzzi's elbow. He did see Pretty's reaction, though. The boy threw his hands up as if to shield his face, wincing and jerking away. Abruzzi punched T-bag in the stomach, driving the breath out of him, but T-bag barely felt the pain. He only had eyes for Pretty.

That reaction—that was not the reaction of a hardened man, as those multiple tattoos and that usually unshakeable demeanor suggested. That was the reaction of a boy. A frightened boy, who's been beaten, whose body reacts to violent stimuli before his brain can interfere. So Pretty was no stranger to violence then? T-bag tucked that thought into the back of his mind for later.

Two other men started beating him, but he managed to watch Abruzzi as he grabbed Pretty possessively, his fingers curled around the nape of the boy's neck, one thumb in front of his ear. It was an intimate touch, a lover's touch, and T-bag felt a flame of anger and jealousy in his belly, along with the vicious kicks these men were delivering. That should be his hand. Their foreheads were mere inches apart, and T-bag could still see the terror in Pretty's lovely, blue eyes.

But T-bag had already known Abruzzi's tastes weren't to fish, not even fish as pretty as this one. No. Pretty would be his. He would have the pleasure of taking him, of forcing his submission, of seeing the terror, the pain, the shame in those blue eyes. He would be the one to lick salty tears off of those cheeks and see the utter brokenness he'd caused. His imagination supplied the details, blocking the pain of the kicks and the blows Abruzzi's thugs were delivering.

Pretty would be his. It was his last thought before a vicious kick to the head sent him into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

When T-bag got back into Gen-Pop from the Infirmary, the boys had a present for him. He was a boy, probably just barely old enough for the adult prison system, obviously terrified, and good enough.

But he wasn't Pretty. And that was who T-bag really wanted.

Still, he could make do. But his thoughts…his thoughts were all about Pretty.

And when he saw Pretty during tier time, sitting on his bunk, obviously in his own little world…well, he couldn't resist.

T-bag looked for Pretty's obnoxious, Spanish-sweet-named roommate, but he was nowhere to be seen. Good. T-bag wanted him all to himself. Without interference.

He slid, serpentine, up to the open door of the cell. Pretty looked up at him, sitting straight up, and T-bag felt a jolt of fire in his belly at the apprehension in those eyes.

"What do you want, T-bag?" Pretty said. His voice was cold and steady. T-bag smiled.

"Well, now, that isn't very po-lite, is it, Pretty? Didn't anyone teach you to respect your elders?" He braced his arms against the wall and the cell door, blocking the exit. "But you're right," he added after a moment, perusing the younger man's body with his eyes. "I do want something from you."

He saw a muscle work in the boy's jaw, and felt a slow, satisfied grin work over his face. "And what would that be?" Pretty asked, in that same cold, unfeeling voice.

T-bag strolled into cell 40, and watched as Pretty's shoulders and neck tightened almost imperceptibly. He kept slinking forward, until he was standing directly in front of the man, turning so his back was against the wall and his hips were jutting forward, into Pretty's space.

T-bag cocked his head to the side, studying those long lashes, those wary blue eyes, that strong jaw, and those luscious lips. He wondered, idly, if Pretty had been so pretty as a kid. Probably. He was probably just the kind of boy T-bag liked…beautiful, delicate, and so, so scared…

"I saw you, in the storage room, Pretty. Oh yes," T-bag said, leaning closer abruptly. He felt a satisfied smirk appear on his lips as the boy jerked backwards without thinking. "Your body is smarter than you are, isn't it? It knows…"

He grabbed Pretty's chin, hard in his hand. He felt the sharp intake of breath, and then Pretty froze. T-bag dug his fingers harder into the boy's jaw line, knowing he'd likely leave marks, but not caring. He had him right where he wanted him. Scared, and not fully in the present.

He could practically see the memories flashing across Pretty's eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, flicking his tongue over his lips. "You know what I want, Pretty? It's not just your ass…or your mouth…or even your fear. Not that those things aren't," and here, T-bag let out a light, slithering hiss, "enjoyable…but right now, I just want to know how you know…"

He could feel Pretty's breathing, shallow and short. He felt tightness in his belly. "Who taught you, Pretty?" he whispered. "Who taught you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pretty replied. But his voice was softer, weaker, suddenly younger by far than his body. And then, T-bag was holding the face of a teenage boy, with those same pretty, terrified blue eyes.

He slapped him hard, before gripping his jaw again. Pretty's fists clenched, his eyes closed, his body jerked. "That's what I'm talking about, Pretty," he whispered. "That reaction…that's not the first time you've been hit. Or…cornered."

Pretty didn't react. His eyes were open again. T-bag could see tears in his eyes, but Pretty didn't let them fall. Too bad.

"So…who was it? Your daddy? Hmm?"

He could see that wasn't the right answer as soon as it came out of his mouth. Pretty didn't react at all.

"Or your mama? No. I can see that wasn't it either. Hmm." T-bag squeezed the boy's jaw tighter, seeing him silently struggle against the pain he was causing.

"You got other family, Pretty? Uncles, cousins? Siblings?"

He felt, rather than saw, Pretty shudder ever so slightly.

"You got a brother, Pretty?" T-bag enquired. "Is that who taught you?" He put his other hand on Pretty's knee, squeezing it.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" An angry, accented voice came from T-bag's right, and T-bag sighed. "Get the fuck outta my cell."

"Relax, sugary fella," T-bag said, without releasing either Pretty's leg or his jaw. "Me and Pretty here are just havin' a—"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." The Puerto Rican's face was one step from deadly, a look T-bag had never seen on it before. He released Pretty and straightened up.

"Whoa, now," T-bag replied lazily, putting his hands up in the air. "Didn't realize you had a claim on him." He enjoyed the fury on the Puerto Rican's face at those words; yes, he knew how to push their buttons, all right. "I'll leave you boys alone." He made a kissing noise at an enraged Sucre, and left.

"Oh, Pretty, Pretty," he said to himself as he moved back towards his own cell. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be so broken you won't know which way is up. And you'll be mine."


	3. Chapter 3

Sucre watched T-Bag leave the cell before turning to his cellie, who was still as a statue on the edge of his bunk. What had just happened in here?

One thing Sucre knew about the fish: he didn't do touch; Sucre had let his emotions get the best of him before and he'd hugged the man, who'd reacted with stiff muscles and obvious surprise. And Fish trusted Sucre, well, as much as he trusted anyone. But T-Bag? T-Bag, the pedophile, the rapist, the murderer…T-Bag had been in here, grabbing his face, his hand on his knee, and the fish was stock still. He hadn't punched the man, hadn't even jerked away. What the fuck?

"What the fuck, Fish?" he asked, looking down at the silent man. "You just gonna let T-Bag come in here and fuck with you like that?" Sucre looked out into the tier before lowering his voice, so only his cellie could hear him. "'Cause he wants you, Fish. You know what I mean?"

But the fish didn't move. Sucre felt a disgusting, squelching feeling in his chest suddenly. Had T-Bag done something to him? He stood in front of the fish and looked at him closer. There were pinkish marks on his face…finger marks. Sucre swore under his breath. Was that it, or was there more?

"_Papi_, talk to me," he begged quietly. "Come on, man. You're freaking me out!"

Suddenly, Michael's blue eyes locked on his. "I'm fine," he said. His voice was impassive, unemotional, everything it usually was. Sucre took a breath.

"Shit, fish. Don't do that, man." Sucre was glad that his cellie was back to normal, but he wondered what had happened. Why would Fish let T-Bag at him like that? He sighed, leaning back against the wall. "What was he doing in here anyway? Why'd you let him in?"

Michael blinked. "I didn't," he replied. The cell doors slid shut with loud clanging.

"Well, you better watch yourself, _Papi_," Sucre warned. "'Cause T-Bag's scum, pure and simple. The tricks he's got up his sleeve—"

"I know, Sucre," Michael said, cutting him off harshly.

Sucre paused for a second, then nodded. "Okay," he said, and pushed himself onto his bunk without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael was still, staring at the bunk above him. But he didn't see it.

All he could hear were T-Bag's whispered taunts_. "Who taught you Pretty? Who taught you?"_ The words echoed in his ears. _"That reaction…that's not the first time you've been hit. Or…cornered."_

He gently ran his fingertips over the bruises T-Bag's fingers had left on his face. Those softly vile words kept coursing through his brain.

_"So…who was it? Your daddy? Hmm? Or your mama? No…You got other family, Pretty? Uncles, cousins? Siblings? You got a brother, Pretty? Is that who taught you?" _

Michael shuddered with disgust at the very idea. He trusted his brother. Loved him. Hell, he'd gotten an enormous, painful tattoo and committed a crime so he could save Lincoln from a death he didn't deserve. After their mom died, Lincoln was the closest thing to a parent Michael had.

Yes, his brother had beaten him. Many times…most of the time, he'd deserved those beatings, too. Sometimes, his brother would be drunk, be high, get furious, and beat the hell out of him for something minor, but not usually. But that wasn't what had taught him. He'd always trusted that his brother wouldn't go too far, wouldn't really harm him. Wouldn't damage him.

No. Others had taught him how to flinch, to throw his hands up, to keep his back to the wall. That had been others.

Memories pushed through his mind, flashing in front of his eyes.

_Hands, pain, grabbing, shoving, his body, so much smaller and frailer, hitting the wall, the door slamming shut. Darkness. All darkness. So, so dark…_

Michael forced himself to stop. It would do no good to go back there, to remember, to re-live. Not here, and not now. Hell, not anywhere. But especially not here, not now.

It had been others who taught him what would happen, in that storage room. Others who taught him what that look in T-Bag's eyes meant. That had been others.

_In the dark, hands invading, breathing, heavy, rough, painful, his whimpers in the darkness. Then unbelievable pain, he screams, and suddenly he can't breathe, he's being choked and there's no air, and everything is going black, black, black…_

"You okay, _Papi_?" Sucre's whisper startled him into the present with a gasp. He ran his hand over his face and wiped sweat off his forehead. "_Papi_?" Suddenly, Sucre was hanging down so Michael could see his face, brow furrowed with concern.

Michael breathed, in and out. "I'm fine," he whispered. He curled away, leaving his back to Sucre. Shame made him darken, and he was glad it was too dark for Sucre to notice. He wondered if Sucre could see his secrets, like T-Bag obviously did. Maybe T-Bag only saw them because he'd created those kind of secrets, and a normal man wouldn't see it. Maybe not. He decided he didn't really want to know.

He heard the top bunk creak as Sucre pulled himself back up, and let out a small breath of relief.

No matter what T-Bag saw, or thought he saw, it didn't matter. His words, that's all they were. Just words. And he was never touching Michael again. Never.

Michael suppressed a shudder that threatened to wrack his body. He tried to allow logic through his fear. He wasn't a child anymore. Even if Abruzzi hadn't arranged for his lackeys to take down T-Bag, surely Michael could have fought off the smaller man? Surely he wouldn't have been helpless, like he had been before. Surely not…

_Not going back there. Not_. Michael curled his arms protectively around his torso, and put his mind back to the plan. The escape route. Anything else.

It would never happen again.


	5. Chapter 5

"Michael! Michael!" T-Bag heard the voice of…Linc the Sink? He burst through the cell door, a handcuff wrapped around his fist like brass knuckles.

The Sink came at him with a look of fury like T-Bag had never seen before. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" T-Bag shouted, desperately trying to ward off this man with nothing to lose. "I didn't touch your man! I didn't touch him! Ask him!" The Sink had his hand around T-Bag's throat, making speech difficult. "Things have changed since we last met!"

The Sink let go of his throat, but still hung on to the collar of his shirt. Suddenly, there was clattering, and T-Bag saw the Sink's eyes drop down to the hole in the wall, where Sucre's head and shoulders were emerging. T-Bag allowed himself a breath. "Relax, partner, I'm in on it now."

The Sink's expression changed as Abruzzi emerged, and suddenly he grabbed Sucre by the back of the neck and hauled him out of the cell. T-Bag could hear him screaming, something about "Abruzzi!" and "The pedophile!" and the Puerto Rican's insane babbling in Spanish, followed by a "Shut up! Where's Michael? Where's Michael?" An impossibly long silence followed, and then another yell of, "Michael! Michael!" as the Sink ran from the cell.

Now, why would the Sink care about Pretty? T-Bag pushed his way out of the cell, curious. Yes, a man could get lonely in here, and yes, Pretty was, well, pretty…but T-Bag didn't think a man like the Sink had much opportunity to go for fish, anyway.

He saw Pretty walk in, looking a little dazed. Suddenly, the Sink was there, with his hand on Pretty's shoulder. Even from a distance, T-Bag saw Pretty startle…and then, to his surprise, he launched himself into the Sink's arms.

Well, what the…T-Bag studied the pair, standing in each other's arms. So obviously, the Sink did have an opportunity to go fishing, then? Pretty was nearly the same height as the Sink, although he was leaner and gave the impression of being much smaller. And he was…was he crying? Really? T-Bag cocked his head. Yes, there were tears there. Hmm.

The two pushed slightly away from each other, but they were still close, speaking. Pretty's hand went to the Sink's neck for a moment, and then he pulled away, starting up the stairs. The Sink was right on his heels, his hand pushing at the small of Pretty's back, urging him up the stairs faster.

T-Bag stepped back into Pretty's cell. Only moments later, Pretty came pushing in, yelling, "Let's get everyone out of here. Especially him!" There was a strength in his voice that most definitely hadn't been there the day before.

T-Bag decided that Pretty needed a reminder of who really had the power, here. "Getting him out of here. I'm gonna take care of him myself," he drawled, letting his anticipation tinge his voice.

Suddenly, Pretty was in front of him. "You're not going to kill him." It sounded like a question to T-Bag.

"It's over. We don't need him no more!" T-Bag cried, getting closer to Pretty. But Pretty just stared him down, his green eyes hot with fury.

"You're not gonna kill him!" Now it was a statement.

T-Bag exploded with anger at this piece of detritus, who thought he was so smart, but couldn't see what was right in front of him. He gave him a harsh shove to the chest, sending Pretty crashing back into the wall. "Are you so stupid you're gonna let him walk out that front door?" he screamed.

He only had a moment to watch Pretty's eyes before he found himself slammed against the back wall of the cell by the Sink. "That ain't for you to decide!" the Sink shouted

T-Bag saw the fury in the Sink's expression but ignored it. "After all he's seen? After all he's seen? After all he's seen?" he shrieked.

The Sink released him and pulled the C.O. to his feet, shoving him out of the cell.

"Get out!" Pretty shouted, his voice furious. T-Bag considered contesting this little power play, proving a point to Pretty. But no, the point could wait. Pretty, and his boyfriend, could wait. First, he had to take care of business. Take one for the team.

But later…later, he and Pretty were gonna have a talk.


	6. Chapter 6

"You know, Pretty, I'm hurt," T-Bag said, coming up behind the younger man in the chow line. Pretty seemed intent on ignoring him, so he moved closer. "See, all this time, I thought you were just picky. Didn't go for the male persuasion…making me work for ya. But now, I see ya with your handsome boyfriend… so that can't be it, can it?" By the end of his little narrative, his mouth was only inches from Pretty's perfectly shaped ear, whispering the words.

"What the fuck—get away from me!" Pretty said, jerking away from T-Bag's mouth, so close to his ear.

"Strike a nerve, Pretty?" he asked, staying close in spite of the fish's attempts to create some distance. "Did I pull your little secret out of the closet? It's nothing to be ashamed of." He put his hand at the small of Pretty's back, a possessive touch he knew the boy would read.

Pretty whirled around, striking him hard in the chest with his tray. "Don't. Touch. Me." The words were cold as ice. T-Bag smirked.

"Funny…you didn't seem to have a problem with the Sink touchin' you like that."

Pretty's eyes flashed, something unreadable, and then pure disgust. He whirled away, strolling towards an unoccupied table. T-Bag rolled his tongue in his mouth. Oh, oh, but this was too much fun to pass up.

T-Bag grabbed his tray and followed at a saunter. He settled into the seat across from Pretty like a satisfied cat.

"Yeah, I saw you during the riot, Didn'tcha think I'd notice, fish? I saw the whole thing. Saw him grab you, saw you flinch…saw you throw yourself into his arms and cling to him, cryin'…saw how he held you. You two got a chance to get real friendly on P.I., is that it?" T-Bag made a kissing noise. "His hand on your ribs, yours on his neck…that's pretty comfortable, ain't it, Pretty? Where else has he stuck those big old hands of his?"

He watched Pretty swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, but his expression and his eyes were carefully shuttered. T-Bag decided to push farther. He couldn't read the emotions in Pretty's eyes, and he wanted to.

"And damn, if he didn't nearly strangle me when he thought I mighta touched you…is he the jealous sort, Pretty? 'Cause, soon enough, me and him, we might have a fight over you. And he might be bigger…but don't doubt that I'm gonna win, and you're gonna be mine."

Now disgust and fury and contempt were flashing across those eyes. Great. Beautiful. He pushed a little harder.

"Only, it's too bad…see, I wanted to be the first…but I suppose I will be, in a way. Taken by force, it's so much sweeter…that beautiful, lean, lithe body of yours will be all mine and—"

Pretty stood up abruptly. "Shut the fuck up, T-Bag," he hissed. His hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.

"What? You don't like my little fantasies, Pretty?" he asked.

"They're gonna stay that way," Pretty spit back, his blue eyes sparking. "Because no matter what you think about my 'persuasions,' I am not interested in men."

"Oh really, Pretty? So then, what would you call Linc the Sink?" T-Bag taunted. "Or did he take you by force too? Only, I saw that embrace of yours. You threw yourself at him, boy. So don't tell me you didn't want—"

"Linc's never touched me," Pretty spit succinctly, his face closer to T-Bag's.

"Lyin's gonna get you in trouble, boy," T-Bag said. "Two men don't get that close less'n they're—"

Pretty looked at him, dead in the eyes. "He's my brother."

And then Pretty was gone, walking out of the chow hall, leaving his untouched tray behind. T-Bag cocked his head to the side, his mouth opening slightly.

"Oh," he said to himself. "My, my…isn't that interesting?"


	7. Chapter 7

That poor kid. Michael watched him, watched how he followed T-Bag around, clinging to his pocket, looking sick and scared, all the time. That kid, that look…and everyone knew. The guards. The other cons. Everyone. But no one did anything about it.

"Say, Pretty," T-Bag said, running his tongue over his lips. "I seen how you look at Cherry, here. You want a bite? 'Cause I could be…persuaded…into sharing."

Michael felt his face contort with disgust, before locking it down completely. But T-Bag smirked. He'd seen it too.

"Why don't you find someone else?" Michael said coldly.

"Well, Pretty," T-Bag said, slinking closer, the boy still hanging on his pocket, "I like a little bit of…fight, in my playthings. And I don't like to get rid of my toys unless I know I'm gonna get something new…and…improved." T-Bag's hand slid over Michael's arm, slithery and light. "You know what I mean?"

"Don't touch me," Michael growled, his eyes like daggers. Goosebumps had broken out all along the path T-Bag had traced. T-Bag laughed.

"Well, unless you're volunteering to be my new toy, Pretty, I suggest you stay out of my business, then."

Michael finished rinsing the industrial soap off of his face and body, and just for a moment, allowed himself to feel every drop of water cascading over his skin. He turned off the water.

"Help me." The voice was unfamiliar; but when Michael looked up, he recognized the face. That boy, T-Bag's cellmate…Cherry? Michael couldn't remember his real name, and he felt a tug of regret at that. Poor kid.

He didn't speak, just stared at the boy, whose eyes were pleading with him. Begging him, to do something. What was he supposed to do? What could he do?

From his right, he heard a pretentious, "Hem hmm." Even before he looked, he knew it was T-Bag. Standing there, naked as a jay bird, with that look in his eyes that made Michael's stomach twist.

Michael saw the raw panic in Cherry's eyes before he silently, quickly, moved away. And then T-Bag was advancing on Michael, like a cat on a mouse.

"You'll have to forgive my boy," T-Bag drawled, gesturing lazily with a bar of soap and watching Michael. Michael reached for a towel and wrapped it around his hips, uncomfortable with his nudity and proximity to the salacious T-Bag. "He has the propensity to be a bit gregarious when he shouldn't be."

Michael looked up in time to catch T-Bag studying his naked chest and stomach. He suppressed a shudder that threatened to run down his spine.

"Fraternizing in the prison shower, come on," T-Bag drawled again, still openly studying Michael's body. Michael felt sick. That poor kid, had to live with this piece of shit, this scum…and he was doing more to that boy than just looking.

"Maybe you ought to cut the kid a break," Michael said, forcing his voice to stay even and cold.

"You wouldn't be meddling in my affairs now, would you Scofield?" T-Bag asked, and suddenly their eyes met, brown to blue. "You can't be that stupid." Now his voice was deadly cold, but there was still that hint of salaciousness there. "Not when I'm so fully invested in your affairs. Unless…you wanted to become one of my affairs?"

T-Bag's mouth tipped into a smirk. Michael kept his face still. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. T-Bag was not going to touch him. The kid was on his own.

"What's between you and him is between you and him," Michael replied, without an iota of emotion. Bigger picture. He had to keep his brain on the bigger picture.

"That's what I thought you said," T-Bag replied, quietly triumphant. Michael turned, still dripping water, and walked away. The bigger picture. The escape. Linc. Not one kid.

"You've gotta help me," the kid pleaded as he left.

Not one poor, defenseless, abused, raped kid, stuck in a cell with a monster, with a pedophile, with a rapist, with a murderer. That wasn't in the big picture. There was absolutely nothing he could do. Nothing he could do. He kept repeating it to himself.

But he couldn't really believe it.


	8. Chapter 8

Michael shut his eyes, but it didn't help. All he could see was that boy's face. That _boy's_ face. Just a boy, he couldn't have been older than nineteen. Pleading with him, the raw panic…the lack of life after his neck snapped, and he was gone, gone, gone…

"I could have done something," Michael whispered, leaning forward, resting his forehead against clenched hands.

"No," his brother whispered back. "T-Bag had his hooks in that kid. There's nothing you could have done."

"I could have told the Pope," Michael replied, his voice shivering with internal agony. "He could have transferred the kid to Ad Seg. He would have been safe."

Those terrified eyes. That face, so young and so scared. He could have helped, and he didn't.

"Go easy Michael. You didn't even know him." Lincoln sounded slightly impatient, and something inside Michael broke.

"And that makes it okay?" he whispered fiercely, his voice breaking on the last word. He thought of all the people who hadn't known him. The social workers, the foster parents. the teachers, and the psychiatrists. Who'd all looked at him, seen him, and not done anything to help him. Who'd just looked the other way.

"I turned my back on him because I didn't want to make waves. It was just…easier…to look the other way." The shame of those whispered words was painful to his ears. "Keep the plan safe."

"And you did," Lincoln said.

"But at what price?" Michael asked. Another man dead. More blood on his hands. Maybe not directly…but there was a body count, stacking up. Because of him. Because of his plan.

"That's not how she raised us, Linc. A man's down, you give him your hand." He thought of his mother, so long gone. Her gentle spirit. She would be ashamed of the man her son had grown into. "She'd roll over in her grave if she knew what I've become."

"She wouldn't." Lincoln's voice was fierce, even in a whisper. "You've given me your hand Michael."

_Yes_, Michael thought. _I've given you my blood-covered hand._


	9. Chapter 9

And Michael kept watching. Couldn't help but watch…couldn't get away from it.

The new fish were here, some of them more noticeable than others. Michael had seen them all as they walked in; the quietly scared, the repeat offenders, the swaggerers. He could see, smell, the fear coming off of these new men. And if he noticed it, so did T-Bag.

Michael watched T-Bag watch the new fish. Michael assessed all the men coming in, his brain sorting through all the tiny details; T-Bag wouldn't want the older men, the fat men, the men who weren't afraid. He'd want the kids, the ones who'd never been to prison before, who only knew of prison through books and movies, the boys with wide eyes and tension in their shoulders. If Michael understood one thing about T-Bag, it was that he thrived off the fear of his victims.

And then he chose. A kid; indeed, probably barely eighteen, shorter than T-Bag, smaller framed. He had a tattoo on his bicep that looked pretty fresh, and Michael guessed it was fresh because he'd only recently become old enough to get a tattoo. The boy was good looking, with dark hair and eyes. T-Bag wanted this kid. Michael saw all the signs.

The intervention between the kid and the Aryan brothers…and how T-Bag, very physically, helped the kid up and dusted him off, smacking his arms, back, hips enthusiastically. Their conversation in the bleachers…and the hand on the knee and the kid's scared, angry response. His cruel taunts…and the kid's terrified eyes.

It was the eyes that did it. They were dark, not pale, but they looked so much like Cherry's eyes, that morning in the shower. That same raw panic. Enough. Michael couldn't watch this any more.

"Maybe you ought to leave the kid alone," Michael said, angrily cutting T-Bag off mid-rant as he followed the boy back into the cell block, taunting him about 'sleeping with one eye open' and 'bringing it in spades.'.

T-Bag's eyebrows raised, and he stalked over to Michael. "And maybe you're in no position to be tellin' me my business. Unless you really, really want me to be in…well, not your business, Pretty, but something else. 'Cause I'd be okay with that. You're even prettier than Tweener, anyway. With those pretty blue eyes…mm." T-Bag's brown eyes locked on Michael's with those words, and Michael could see the lust and the sick delight in those brown eyes.

Michael swallowed, stepping backwards. He felt a metal pole against his back, one of the supports for the stairs. T-Bag took a step closer, and Michael felt himself freeze, like a deer in the headlights.

"My last plaything's gone, see? And a man like myself gets bored, and to be entirely honest, stimulated, without someone to relieve the tension with. You understand my dilemma, Pretty?" Michael could see that T-Bag was enjoying this, enjoying toying with him, but he was powerless to stop him.

"Now, you haven't exactly been forthcoming with your affections, but if you're willing to re-negotiate, I could perhaps be persuaded to take your attentions, rather than a certain other boy's." T-Bag's tongue slithered out of his mouth for a moment, and Michael watched it, disgusted but distant. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening.

"So, Pretty? Are you offering?" T-Bag's face was mere inches from Michael's. "You wanna feel all the things I can do to you? Want me to claim this body of yours?" He put his hand on Michael's hip and squeezed.

Michael jerked away, startled out of his trance by shock and pain. Those hands were stronger than they appeared. T-Bag's mouth tipped again, into that same, ever so unpleasant smirk.

"That's what I thought," he said, turning away without so much as a backwards glance. Leaving Michael standing there, in the middle of the tier, watching him walk away.

Watching him walk away. Again. Leaving that kid on his own. Another kid. And in a month, a week, a day…another dead kid. Another kid, hanging from the tier with a broken neck. And Michael was just watching this piece of shit walk away.

"Keep walking, cons!" Stolte yelled. "Scofield, move it!"

Walk away. So he did.


	10. Chapter 10

That night, Michael could hear T-Bag singing. "Tweener….oh, Tweener, I'ma comin' for you." He was playing, toying with this kid.

Above him, Michael heard Sucre grunt in his sleep. He stared up at the mattress overhead, T-Bag's voice echoing in his ears. Pure evil. Pure cruelty. T-Bag was enjoying himself, enjoying the hunt, enjoying the chase almost as much as he would enjoy the actual event.

Another voice, one from his past, softly pried at the edge of his mind. "Michael? Michael, where are you baby?" The voice sounded gentle, but Michael could hear the malice there. The evil. The cruel enjoyment of his fear.

He huddled under the bed, his knees curled to his chest, hearing the footsteps of his attacker. Frantically, but wordlessly, he prayed. Terror made his heart beat fast, crashing against his ribs. _Please God. Please. Please._

"Now Michael, don't think you can hide from me. You know I always get what I want." The voice was low and menacing, silk over steel, pure danger. "Just be a good boy, and it'll be so much easier for you."

Michael felt tears leak from his eyes and roll down his cheeks, sideways, across his nose. He didn't sniff, afraid to give away his hiding spot..

Above him, the mattress creaked. Michael froze. He'd been found!

"Papi?"

Huh? Michael was confused. What was happening?

"Papi? You okay, man?"

Suddenly, Michael was back. He took a deep breath. "Fine," he replied.

Michael heard Sucre turn over, and he let out a small sigh. He sat up, leaning over the edge of his bunk with his elbows on his knees. In the tier, T-Bag was still singing his vile lullaby to Tweener. That poor kid.

Michael stood and walked to the door of his cell, looking down to the first tier. In the dull light, he could see T-Bag, leaning into the bars of his cell door, crooning away. The expression on his face made Michael's stomach twist. It was familiar. Delight. Satisfaction. Anticipation. Lust. He'd seen it all before.

He looked to the right, to Tweener's cell. What he saw made his fists clench at his sides. He gritted his teeth, swallowing hard

The boy was sitting on the bottom bunk, curled into a ball. His back was pressed against the concrete block wall, and in his arms, he gripped a pillow like a child might hold a teddy bear. And he was sobbing. Silently, soundlessly, but Michael could see the tears running down his face. He looked about ten years old, and absolutely terrified.

Michael's conscience ate at him. This was just a kid; much like he had been. For all his posing, his strutting, his cockiness, he was a man and a child at the same time. In here, he was practically defenseless. He had no group, no gang, no friends even. No one cared about this kid. And T-Bag was right; he would get him.

Unless Michael did something. He could. He could save THIS kid, do something, help him, instead of just watching, instead of freezing up, instead of walking away. He hadn't saved Maytag, hadn't saved Cherry, hadn't, couldn't, save himself…but just maybe, he could save this kid.

He looked back down to the first tier, to the crying teenager. He had to help him.

Someone had to break the cycle. Now.


	11. Chapter 11

T-Bag couldn't keep the grin off his face as he walked out with the rest of P.I, following Pretty and the Sink. Sucre was to his left, watching him watch Pretty walk.

"What are you grinning about?" the Puerto Rican asked him, sounding perturbed.

"Just the fact that I'm gonna be out in the real world here in a little bit," T-Bag drawled. He saw Pretty's shoulder's tense in front of him, which made him smirk. So the boy had a problem with that, then? That was the least of his problems.

"The fact that I'm gonna get me one fine piece of tail certainly don't hurt either," he added lazily, enjoying watching Pretty's muscles tense, enjoying how his hands clenched in his pockets. This boy certainly was a lot of fun. He moved closer to him, so the boy would be able to feel his breath on the back of his neck. "Nothin' like tail, eh, Scofield?" he said salaciously before breezing by. He didn't miss the way the boy's jaw twitched at those words, though. No, he noticed everything.

Inside the guard's room, he watched Linc and Abruzzi move the table off the carpet covering the hole. He turned back, fully intending to give Pretty some more crap. He loved watching him. Those eyes gave so much. And then Pretty was there, in front of him, and there was agony.

His knee was on fire. T-Bag dropped to the floor, a strangled howl of pain emerging from his throat. Pretty had just hit him with a crowbar!

"Son of a bitch!" T-Bag yelled, grabbing his knee. That boy hit him. Him! With a crowbar!

"This ends right now." He'd never heard Pretty sound so authoritative. Under other circumstances, he'd find it funny, or arousing; right now, he was pissed.

"Oh, you just screwed some major-league pooch, Pretty," T-Bag spit. The agony from his knee came in waves. "I'm gonna sing like a whole tree-full of birds now." He'd teach this boy a lesson, all right. Now, and for the next five years, over and over again, every chance he got. "Badge!" A strong pair of hands landed on his shoulders; not Pretty's. Someone else's. But he ignored them, because Pretty was crouched in front of him.

"You wanna sing? Then sing." Pretty's voice was as stoic as his face. All T-Bag could see in those blue eyes was pure ice. "But you know what I think? You don't have the guts."

T-Bag scoffed. Obviously, this boy had underestimated him, yet again. He sure was pretty…there could be an upside to this whole stuck on the inside thing. Like perhaps a new cell-mate? A very pretty one. Mmm-hmm. Another jolt of agony to his knee brought him back to the present moment.

"You want out of here just as much as the rest of us." Pretty was practically smirking. Well, he could, and would, wipe that smirk off that pretty face…it would be so much prettier when it was bruised, bleeding, begging for him to stop…T-Bag licked his lips.

The C.O. walked in then, and T-Bag spared him a glance. "We got a problem here?" he asked, looking at the men on the floor.

T-Bag stared down Pretty, but Pretty's eyes never wavered. Not a flicker of doubt. Nothing there but pure self-assurance and confidence. Nothing he could use. Well, fine.

"No," T-Bag spit, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the incredible pain from his knee. "I thought we was missing some tools here. My bad." He saw Pretty smirk again, and felt a stab of violence run through his bones. That boy was going to pay for this.

The C.O. stalked off, and Pretty was back in his face, so close, tempting him. "Now," he said, their noses only inches apart, "you and I may be stuck together in this little dance, but I call the shots. First shot, that kid out there, you don't touch him. Ever." Pretty's eyes darkened, and T-Bag caught the glimmer of pain there. This was important to him, that he not fuck with this kid? Well, okay…but he was gonna fuck with someone.

"Do we understand each other?" His voice was like steel. T-Bag felt a jolt low in his belly. He could show him right now, how well he understood…

T-Bag felt, behind him, a sense of menace. He spared a slow glance over his shoulder, to where Linc the Sink was standing, glaring powerfully down at him. _Brother's keeper,_ he thought lazily. _But brother won't always be there to save his ass_.

"We do," T-Bag said, barely above a whisper.

Pretty turned his back, and T-Bag's eyes dropped to his ass. _You'll understand plenty of things real well once I'm done with you, Pretty_, he though. _Like not to mess with Theodore Bagwell._


	12. Chapter 12

T-Bag was watching. Waiting. The moment would come, eventually.

And then it did. T-Bag waited behind as the rest filed out of the guard's room from P.I. Pretty was just about to walk out that door…

And T-Bag grabbed his arm. Hard. Closed his hand over that ink-covered skin, felt the muscles and bones hiding beneath the surface, felt the tension in those muscles.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Pretty hissed at him as T-Bag prevented him from leaving the room. The door swung shut, leaving the two of them alone.

"You and I need to talk, Pretty," T-Bag said.

"I don't think here and now is the time," Pretty replied. "Let go." He made a move as if to pull away. T-Bag prevented it, pushing the taller man towards the wall.

"Oh, but I think it is. See, when you hit me with that crowbar last week, you asked me if I understood. But now…now it's your turn to understand something. You hear me, Pretty?" He twisted Pretty's arm behind him, shoving his hand between his shoulder blades. The boy grunted in surprise and pain, and T-Bag felt a jolt in his groin. This was beautiful. Just like he'd planned.

He heard Pretty's breathing hitch in his throat. "Yeah. You do hear me, don'tcha?" He twisted the boy's other arm up behind him too, cutting off his ability to struggle. "What's going on in that energetic brain of yours right now, Pretty? Are you thinking, 'Maybe I shouldn't have fucked with T-Bag, since obviously now, he's gonna fuck me?' Is that what's going on?"

T-Bag kicked Pretty behind the knee, sending him crashing to the floor with a loud groan. He grabbed a piece of rope, left behind from P.I., and used it to knot the boy's arms at the small of his back. Then he got to his feet, standing over the helpless man.

"Well, Pretty? Is that what's going through your mind?"

Pretty didn't speak. T-Bag could only hear him breathing. It made him furious. He leaned over and grabbed the boy's shoulders, flipping him over so he was lying face up.

"That's more like it," T-Bag whispered, sitting over Pretty's thighs. He could see bruises forming on Pretty's cheekbone, chin, and forehead, where he'd struck the floor face-first. T-Bag ran his hands down the sides of the boy's face before letting them grasp his hips. Pain and fear flashed through those blue eyes, and then they were blank as a TV screen between stations.

"You are awfully pretty, you know. I wanted you the first second I saw you walk through those doors, all tall and lean, with those blue eyes of yours. I wanted your ass…your mouth…your fear. Now, looks like I'm gonna get all those things. All at once." He slapped Pretty's face with all his might. Again, the boy flinched hard, and a trickle of blood started oozing from one nostril. Those eyes…they were so beautiful. So much emotion was flowing through those eyes.

Terror. Anger. Resignation. Fear. Pain. Everything T-Bag thrived off of was right there, in those eyes. "Beautiful," he whispered, leaning closer to Pretty's face, pressing his weight into his hipbones. The boy's eyes flickered as T-Bag covered his mouth with his own, pressing his tongue between pink lips, taking that mouth, pillaging it, owning it. He felt the boy's defeat; he didn't even try to fight him off. T-Bag mercilessly plundered his mouth with his tongue, tasting Pretty's blood. He wondered if Pretty could feel the razor blade.

"You taste just as good as I thought you would, boy," he whispered his mouth only inches away. "Sweeter than a virgin's kiss."

To his surprise, Pretty let out a weak chuckle. "I'm hardly a virgin," he said, and there was a bitterness in his voice that made T-Bag pause.

"In my way, you are…" T-Bag said, and he started pulling Pretty's P.I. jumpsuit off of his shoulders, baring that fascinating tattoo.

"Not in any way," the boy replied. "But you knew that, didn't you?" His voice was quiet, dark, and strangely emotionless.

"What are you talking about, boy?" T-Bag replied. He grunted in frustration as Pretty's trussed hands prevented him from removing the jumpsuit completely. He moved to Pretty's side, flipped the boy onto his stomach again and grabbed his hands.

"You knew. All that shit you said; all that shit you did. You knew all about it, somehow. How?" Pretty's voice was so blank. T-Bag looked at the puzzle that was Pretty's hands, the knots, and the jumpsuit. How would he untie him enough to undress him without letting him loose?

"I saw you, Pretty. Saw you flinch when Abruzzi hit me…saw that you knew what I wanted from you before that. I mean, prison showers are notorious, but that look in your eyes…that look spoke of experience." He'd have to cut it, T-Bag decided. He took the razor blade from under his tongue, and slipped it into the fabric at the small of Pretty's back. Pretty flinched at that, which made him snicker, Impatience hit him, suddenly, and he ripped at the fabric, tearing it loose from the boy's body, bearing his boxer-clad ass, the backs of his thighs, his lower back. Satisfied, he settled himself over the younger man, until his mouth was by his neck, his crotch grinding against Pretty's thighs. "So you have experience?"

Pretty didn't say anything. T-Bag slapped him hard on the hip, making him jerk. "Answer me, boy!"

Suddenly, the door to the break room swung open. "What the fuck—get up!" Patterson came into the room, pulling his billy club out of its holster. "Get off of him!"

T-Bag grunted as Patterson slammed him hard into the wall, yanking his arms behind his back. The cold cuffs circled his wrists, and he felt the muscles in his shoulders strain.

"I need assistance in the break room," Patterson said in his radio. "Possible prisoner on prisoner assault; will need an escort to infirmary."

"On my way," Bellick's voice came back over the radio. T-Bag wanted to laugh. "Saved by the bell, Pretty," he said.

And they stood there, he in cuffs, Patterson clutching his arms, watching Pretty lay there, half naked, on the cold, concrete floor. So it hadn't been quite like he'd planned…but it could have been. And there would be next time.


	13. Chapter 13

When Bellick walked in, he was astounded by the picture that met his eyes. Patterson had T-bag in cuffs, and Scofield was on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back with rope, and his P.I. jumpsuit was in shreds.

"I've got him, Patterson," Bellick said, walking over to Scofield. "Take that piece of shit to the SHU."

Patterson bodily forced T-Bag from the break room. The door slammed shut behind them. Bellick crouched down next to Scofield.

"Well, well. So you finally got what's coming to you, huh Scofield?" he asked. Something inside him enjoyed this, enjoyed seeing this man who thought he was so smart, so good, so much better than Bellick, humbled. On his belly, on the floor. Used, like a whore, like a piece of trash, and tossed away. Yes. He was satisfied.

Scofield didn't speak. Bellick wondered why.

"Nothing to say, Scofield?" he asked. "No comments on this little conjugal of yours?"

He watched the man carefully, but there was no visible reaction. "Probably not as much fun as the one in the bone yard with that pretty little whore of yours, huh? Unless you haven't told her you prefer to be on the receiving end?"

Still, Scofield didn't move. Bellick grabbed his shoulder and shook it. "You there, Schofield? Anyone home?"

There was no reaction. Bellick felt his heart jump. He quickly searched for Scofield's pulse in his neck, feeling for it with rough fingers. But it was there, beating strong under his fingertips. He took a breath.

"All right, Scofield. Get up." Bellick got to his feet and grabbed Scofield's arms, pulling him harshly to his knees. "Come on, boy, get up."

He got Scofield to his feet. The man just stood there, head bowed, hands still knotted behind his back. "I suppose I better untie you, huh boy?" Bellick said, not expecting anything from the prisoner. "I don't expect the good doctor would want to see you tied up like a calf to slaughter."

Suddenly, Scofield spun to face him. "No doctor," he said. His voice was like stone.

Bellick raised his eyebrows. "So you do speak," he said. "Thought maybe T-Bag cut your tongue out, as a souvenir or something." He studied the prisoner's face. Blood was smeared over his lips and chin from his nose; it still dripped freely. There were bruises everywhere. "He did a hell of a job on you. You don't look so pretty any more."

"No doctor," Scofield repeated. His eyes locked with Bellick's. Bellick smirked.

"I don't think that's an option, Scofield," he said. "After a violent assault like this, the doc has to check you out. See if you need stitches or anything like that, you know?" He chuckled at the look of fury on Scofield's face. "Don't worry; she's seen plenty of asses before yours."

"Nothing happened," Scofield replied. "I don't need a doctor."

"Well, we'll have her check you over, just to make sure," Bellick replied. He grabbed Scofield's arm. "Now, come on."

Scofield locked his knees, not moving. "No doctor," he repeated.

"Not your choice, Scofield. Now start walking." He gave the man a shove towards the door, sending him stumbling forward.

"NO!" Scofield said, turning violently towards Bellick. Bellick grabbed him and shoved him hard against the wall, watching his face contort in agony. Scofield gave a strangled cry of pain.

"Don't try to pull this shit with me," Bellick warned him, pushing him against the wall again. Another mangled moan fell from the man's lips. "Now walk, Scofield, or else the good doc's really gonna have something to fix. You hear me?"

Scofield swallowed hard and gave one, short nod. Bellick let him go, and pulled him away from the wall.

"Ahh!" the prisoner screamed, falling to his knees. Exasperated, Bellick kicked at his leg. "Get up." But Scofield just groaned, unmoving.

Then Bellick saw the blood smear on the wall, around a rather jagged nail, sticking out of the old drywall. "Fuck," he said, looking down at the kneeling prisoner. A huge tear had been created in the shoulder of his uniform, and through that tear, Bellick could see a huge, bloody gash.

"Up, Scofield," he said. "Now." He yanked the man to his feet, ignoring the scream ripped from Scofield's throat. "Infirmary, I'm bringing in assault victim. ETA five minutes," he said into the radio at his shoulder.

And when he gave Scofield a push, this time, the man walked.


	14. Chapter 14

Katie picked up the radio at the desk. "Bellick, who's the victim? We need to pull his chart." She picked up a pencil, ready to write down the name.

"Scofield," Bellick replied after a moment.

Sara was walking by at that moment, and she froze. "Michael Scofield?" she asked, feeling something in her stomach twist.

"Michael Scofield?" Katie repeated into the radio.

"The one and only," Bellick replied sarcastically. Sara turned away immediately, going into exam room two on autopilot.

Her body set up for an exam; she put up the screen and collected supplies, put fresh paper on the exam table, and laid out a gown. But her brain was elsewhere.

Michael Scofield was the assault victim? Here, assault was code for only one thing. Rape. She couldn't bear to think about it.

This man was not like the other cons—he was educated, brilliant, charming, sweet, and good-hearted. She couldn't help but believe that, despite the fact he'd lied to her, despite the fact that he'd flirted with her even though he was married, despite the fact that she had questions about him for which there didn't seem to be answers. Something told her that this man was more. More than just another inmate. More than just another con.

Or had been more. She came out of the exam room just as Bellick escorted him into the infirmary. The sight that met her eyes made her want to cry.

Michael was standing, and that struck her as a good sign. His arms were behind his back and he kept his head bowed. She could see blood on his face, and bruises, but he kept his eyes down. "Bring him into exam 2," she commanded, and somehow, her voice was steady. Bellick gave Michael a push, and she felt hatred for him spring up anew. How dare he treat this man like that, after everything? Hadn't he endured enough?

Once in the exam room, she said, "Thank you, Officer Bellick. I can handle it from here."

Bellick looked like he wanted to protest. She raised an eyebrow, and made her tone more stern. "I said I can handle it."

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Bellick nodded, and left the office. She shut the door behind him and finally turned her full attention to Michael.

She felt her heart break. "Michael?" she said quietly, looking at the battered man. "I need you to change into a gown for me, all right?" She kept her voice gentle.

She heard him swallow in the silence. "I…I can't." His voice was barely more than a whisper. It hurt her to hear it.

"Why not?" Sara asked him, not knowing what to expect. What had happened to him? She didn't want to know, and yet, she had to. "You're walking; is there something wrong with—"

"My hands," he replied, cutting her off. She saw him shudder.

"What's wrong with your hands, Michael? Let me see them." She reached out one of her hands, but he didn't move, just shook his head.

"You'll…uh…have to," he swallowed again, "untie them for me."

What? Sara felt her eyes widen. "Turn around Michael," she said. He paused, and then, slowly, did. She covered her mouth with her hand.

His wrists had been tied together with a piece of rope, tightly knotted. There was blood covering his shoulder. His uniform had been shredded. She felt her stomach revolt at the implications. Okay. First things first.

"Bellick let you walk here like that?" she asked, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. Michael didn't respond. She swore under her breath, grabbing a scissors from a desk drawer and gently taking Michael's hands. "Hold still," she said. "I'll cut you loose." She could feel him trembling under her gentle touch, and it pained her.

Michael stayed as still as possible as she carefully sawed away at the rope. Finally, the last cord broke, and his hands came free. They fell to his sides, and Michael turned and faced her.

He was close. So close. Bruises and blood covered that beautiful face. The coppery scent of blood and fear overshadowed his usual warm, masculine scent. She turned away.

"Change into the gown, please," she said. "I'll be right back."

She fled the room, her stomach twisting. This was just the beginning of the damage that had been wrought on this beautiful man. How…how was she supposed to keep her heart out of it, when all she wanted to do was hold him, comfort him, tell him everything would be okay?

But she had a job to do. He couldn't be Michael to her, not right now, because that meant she wouldn't be able to do her job without ripping her heart into pieces. He just had to be another inmate. Another con. That was it.

She didn't know if she could do it.


	15. Chapter 15

Michael looked at the folded gown on the exam table. He couldn't do this. Nothing had happened, really. His shoulder hurt an agonizing amount, and his face ached, but T-Bag hadn't gotten a chance to do what he'd really wanted. Michael was grateful.

Sara opened the door. "Michael?" she said.

"I didn't go anywhere," he replied. He rubbed at his wrists; they hurt a lot too. He could feel rope burns there, although the tattoos made them more difficult to see. He was glad that the burns hadn't marred the designs, at least.

Sara stood in front of him. "Michael, you need to put on that gown," she said. Her voice wasn't stern, exactly, but she sounded serious.

"Nothing happened, Sara," he replied. "It's not necessary."

"I'm the doctor here; let me decide what's necessary. Put on the gown." She crossed her arms over her chest. "That uniform is all torn up anyway."

Michael froze. He couldn't handle this. Nothing had happened to him, nothing significant, anyway, but if Sara looked him over…he wondered if a person could truly die of embarrassment. He'd had his dreams about her, all right, but they'd involved roses and champagne, hammocks, beaches, and twenty-five cent beers, or Egyptian cotton sheets—not rape kits in the prison infirmary.

"Michael, please. I don't want to have to…" she stopped, and shook her head. "I'll be back in a minute. And you will have that gown on. Understand?"

She left without waiting for a reply. Michael shut his eyes for a second. But there was nothing he could do. She could call security, she could get him held down, she could force the issue. And that would only make it worse, only make it more embarrassing. No, he'd have to be a man.

He carefully removed the P.I. uniform. It hurt like a bitch, especially when he pulled it off his shoulder, where the blood was making it stick. He heard himself moan, but couldn't prevent it.

He left it in a pile on the ground. Usually, his compulsive neat streak would force him to fold it, to make it neat and tidy, but right now, he had other things to worry about. He unfolded the gown and slipped it on, carefully tying it, trying to cover himself as much as possible. He kept his boxers on, and sat down on the end of the exam table.

When Sara came in again, she looked relieved. Michael couldn't decide why she would be relieved; he decided it didn't matter and he didn't really want to know anyway.

She pulled on a pair of gloves and walked over to him. She looked over his face, delicately prodding his nose. "Open your mouth," she said to him. Michael did, trying not to think too much. Right. Because low latent inhibition allowed that_. So think about something else, besides why she's poking around your mouth_, Michael told himself.

"Your mouth is all cut up," she said. Michael ignored those words. He focused on her.

As she looked in his mouth, he noticed her hair. Shiny auburn, beautiful hair, smelled so good, like expensive shampoo, like flowers and sunshine, each strand perfect. Her eyebrows, perfectly shaped, one stray hair she'd missed…those beautiful eyes, shimmering, bright, multiple hues of brown, locked on his. He shut his eyes. Caught.

Sara turned away. She pulled a sheet off a shelf and put it over his lap. "I'm going to take a look at that cut on your shoulder," she said. He felt her move around behind him, felt her delicate fingers untie the string holding the gown on his shoulders. She pulled it loose, and the cool air hit his skin, making him shiver. Her hands gently touched his back.

"How'd this happen?" she asked. Michael tensed. He knew he couldn't tell the truth on this—Bellick could make it even more difficult for him to get out of here if he wanted. Sara's fingers prodded at it, and Michael's entire body reacted to the pain. He saw white at the edges of his vision.

"Hang on, Michael," she said, steadying him. "This is going to need stitches. Lay down on your stomach."

Michael gritted his teeth. "Stitches?"

"It's a large wound, with jagged edges. It won't close on its own." Sara was busy preparing things, but Michael could only think of one thing.

"My tattoo. Will it damage my tattoo?" He knew he sounded a little frantic, but he couldn't keep that note out of his voice.

"The tattoo is already damaged, Michael. I'll do the best I can, but it's more important that I get that gash closed than preserve your body art." Sara had another needle. "Okay, this is just to numb it so the stitches don't hurt."

Michael barely felt the needle enter his skin. "Alright. Come on Michael. On your stomach."

Michael stood up, and with Sara's direction, laid face down on the exam table. He felt her cover him with a sheet, and then she put her hand on his back. "Just hold still, all right?"

Michael nodded, and laid still as Sara started stitching him up.


	16. Chapter 16

"So tell me Michael. What's this from? What caused it?" Sara made her stitches neat and precise. The tattoo had been torn; she knew it would be warped and changed when she was done. _Much like Michael himself_, she thought with a stab of guilt.

"A nail," Michael said. His voice was quiet. Sara paused.

"A nail? Old or new?" she asked.

"Old. From the old C.O. break room."

From the C.O. break room. That told Sara plenty. "Were you working on P.I.?" she asked. Michael didn't reply, but his muscles tensed. So, yes.

"Relax your muscles," she reminded him. He took a breath. She waited, but it became apparent he wasn't going to answer her. Sara shook her head. "You're going to need a tetanus shot also."

Michael laughed without humor. "I figured," he said. "What's one more prick?"

Her eyebrows rose at that. She'd heard a double _entendre_ there; was it intentional, or had she made it up? He was a heavily tattooed diabetic; it could just be a needle joke. It could also be…something else. But why would Michael say something like that? If it was his attempt at a joke, she didn't find it very funny. And she doubted he did either.

She continued stitching in silence. She could see Michael's shoulder's moving up and down with his breathing. Finally, she said, "Who was it?"

Michael tensed again. She tied the last stitch and cut the thread. "Come on, Michael. I could just ask Patterson, but I'd rather not find out that way." She turned away, putting the needle into a sharps container.

Michael suddenly pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the table. "Don't, Sara," he said. "Just don't." His voice was prickly.

She turned back to him. The sheet was wrapped around his waist, contrasting with the dark ink of his tattoos. He appeared to be studying his own flawless abs, although for what she didn't know. "Michael," she said quietly.

He wouldn't look at her. Sara touched his hand, gently. "Michael, please," she said.

He didn't move. "Nothing happened, Sara."

"Don't tell me nothing happened!" Sara was surprised at the vehemence in her own voice. She turned towards the sink, grabbing a clean cloth and running it under warm water. She wrung out the cloth, wishing she could wring some sense into Michael. "I'm going to clean off your face."

She lifted his chin. He shut his eyes, shutting her out. She suppressed a sigh, and carefully, tenderly, washed the blood off of his face. He winced, but didn't resist her. By the time she finished, blood and dirt covered the cloth. She set it down.

"Michael," she said, tenderly holding his un-bruised cheek. "Michael, please tell me what happened."

Suddenly, his eyes opened. She couldn't look away; she was drowning in the pain, in the anger, in the trepidation in those beautiful bluish green eyes. "Please," she whispered.

Something in his eyes shifted. "Will you listen?" he asked, and the dark, angry intensity of that question took her aback. People hadn't listened to him, once upon a time. But she could do that for him.

"Yes," she said. "Yes. I'll listen."


	17. Chapter 17

Michael looked into her earnest eyes. There was pain there. For him? Yes. She cared, for some reason.

"Sara, please. I just…don't…oh, God, Sara." He buried his face in his hands, suppressing tears.

"Michael. Michael, it's okay. It's okay, you can trust me." She gently put her hands on his wrists. He flinched; it hurt. She noticed immediately. "Let me see your wrists, Michael. They're burned."

He swallowed hard, and didn't resist when she gently pulled his hands down to look at his wrists. He wondered what she saw when she looked at his tattoos. He saw all the hours, all the planning, all the tears, all the sacrifice. What did Sara see?

"You've got 1st degree burns here. I'm going to wrap your wrists." Her voice was efficient, professional. She quickly gathered supplies. Michael watched her with careful eyes. Gauze. Tape. Ointment. She came back over to him. "Wrist please," she said.

He offered her his left hand. Very carefully, she turned it so his palm was facing up, studying the burn more closely.

"T-Bag waited behind," he said. "And I was…thinking. I wasn't paying attention."

He heard her inhale, softly. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. How had he been taken by surprise? He'd known what that man wanted from him; it had been made perfectly clear, multiple times. And Michael had known better than to put himself in a situation like that. But he hadn't been paying attention. Or rather, he'd been paying attention to the wrong things.

He'd paid attention to the small pieces of concrete falling out of Sucre's pocket, the dust on Lincoln's hands, the way the door creaked as they opened it, the exact placement of the tools on the outlines, the millions of tiny, tiny details of how the plan had to work, or else his brother would die. He'd known T-Bag was behind him. But somehow, somehow, he'd missed that glint in his eye. That warning. And that…that he should have noticed. Fifteen years ago, he would never have missed it. But today…today, he had.

"He's stronger than he looks, you know," Michael added. Shame made his face redden. T-Bag was smaller than him. He was shorter by about four inches, and smaller framed, but those skinny bones were covered with stringy muscle. "And he had the element of surprise."

Sara didn't say anything. Michael watched her as she carefully spread ointment over the burn. She never looked away from his wrist. He wondered why. Was she embarrassed? Or just trying to give him space?

"He grabbed my arms and twisted them up, between my shoulders." Michael's shoulders throbbed at the memory; he knew some muscles had been pulled. "Kicked me behind the knee, and sent me to the floor. Knocked the wind out of me…and also beat the hell out of my face." Michael tried to smirk, but it hurt, so he stopped.

Sara's eyes shot up to his face with those words; the accidental eye contact was more painful than the nail through his shoulder. He looked away, staring out the window. He could feel her eyes on his face still, studying him.

"He tied my hands behind me. As I'm sure you noticed." He gestured at his left wrist, which she was carefully wrapping in gauze, with his right hand. And then he fell silent.

It was crystal clear in his brain. The roughness of T-Bag's hands as he'd flipped him over, the pain of his own weight crushing his hands beneath him, how the older man had sat on his legs so Michael could feel T-Bag's erection pressing against his thigh. How those skinny, white hands had ran over his face, then grabbed his hips so hard he knew there would be marks. Those words…words of lust, of wanting, of perversion and pain, and then being slapped. Feeling the trickle of blood escape from his nose. And then…that kiss.

It had been its own kind of rape. He'd known he was helpless, completely, totally unable to prevent it. T-Bag's tongue had pressed into his mouth, and he'd tasted blood and metal. He'd heard around that the man carried a razor blade under his tongue; it was true. He had tasted it. He had felt it, felt it occasionally bite into the soft skin of his lips or the inside of his cheek. Not deep, just enough to sting slightly. He had been marked.

Fear had kept him still. This man could kill him. If he was dead, there would be no one to save Lincoln. LJ would be alone in the world, at sixteen. So he'd stayed still, not fought, just allowed T-Bag to take what he wanted. Just one more, that was all. One more person, taking what they wanted from him. He'd survived before; he'd survive again. Or so he'd decided.

And then, T-Bag had pulled away. It was that next remark that had done it. "Sweeter than a virgin's kiss," Michael whispered. It had hit him harder than the slap, made him bleed so much harder. Only this bloodshed had been inside, where it couldn't be seen.

"Excuse me?" Sara said.

Michael's eyes widened. He'd spoken aloud. Shit. Sara's eyes were on his again now, like lasers, intense, focused, full of emotion. He couldn't handle this. He looked away.

"No, Michael. Michael. What happened?" she asked. Her voice was gentle, but insistent.

Michael shook his head. Tears threatened again, and he forced them back. He was not, would not, be weak. Not in front of this woman. She would not know what he had done. What he had been. Even Linc didn't know. Sara would not know.

Because she was special. He wanted her to see him as he could be, rather than as he had been. He wanted her to see him as the man he was, now, the man he would be when he was out of here, not the boy he'd been. And if she knew this…she'd never look at him the same. Never.


	18. Chapter 18

"Sweeter than a virgin's kiss."

The words startled her. Those were not Michael's words. There was a slimy quality to them, a quality that she'd never, ever heard out of Michael's mouth. No, those words were Theodore Bagwell's.

"Michael, what happened?" she begged, searching his eyes. He wouldn't look at her.

"Nothing happened, Sara."

"Michael, don't tell me that. Please." She finished wrapping his wrists, and then took his hand in both of hers. "Michael, don't do this. Don't make me do this the hard way."

At those words, his body stiffened. Something moved in his jaw, setting it to a tenser position. He pulled his hand out of hers.

Those had not been the right words. She could tell. Suddenly, he was closed off, gone, no contact. "Michael—"

"No."

His jaw was carved from stone. His eyes too. Everything. Like a statue, the man sat on the exam table, staring harshly into space.

"You really going to force this, Doctor Tancredi?" he asked, his voice ice cold. "You'll do that?"

"Michael, no—"

"Because if that's how this is going to be, I can accept that." She'd never heard his voice sound so dead, so cold, so harsh. It hurt her ears.

"No Michael. That isn't how it's going to be." She looked at the man, who gave her absolutely nothing. He was an enigma, Michael Scofield.

"Please, Michael. I'm sorry." She spoke like she might to a wounded animal, softly, soothing. "Please, what happened?"

He didn't respond. Carefully, she reached out and touched his hand. It twitched, underneath her own.

"Michael. Michael, please…let me listen."

Those words melted something in him.

He looked at her. In her eyes, he could see a million apologies. He could see that she was sorry. She wanted to help him. Who was this woman? Who would want to help him? But it was there…somehow, she cared.

"You really want to hear?" he asked, and his voice was rough. He saw her take a deep breath.

"I'm listening, Michael," she replied.

Michael didn't want to say it. Not to her. Not to anyone. But she was watching him, and waiting, and if he was honest, he was afraid that if he didn't say something, she would do something extreme. So finally, after the longest stretch of silence, he spoke.

"He kissed me." Michael could hear how flat his own voice was. He forced himself to look into her eyes, forced himself to see the pain there. Why was there pain there? He didn't understand it.

"Your mouth is cut," Sara said.

"He keeps a razor blade under his tongue." Again, his voice was flat. "I'd heard rumors…they're true." He was reminded sharply of the first line of his tattoo, the surprise at the sensation. Like being cut with a razor blade. Almost exactly. "And that was what he said." He laughed, completely without humor. A virgin's kiss.

Sara looked at his eyes. They were so dark, like a sky in a thunderstorm. Grey-blue, flashing with anger and pain. There was more there, than a kiss. Not that a kiss wasn't a powerful weapon, but there was something else.

"What else?" she asked.

"Nothing else," Michael said. He didn't look away. "He said things. And then Patterson came in. That was it."

"The gash from the nail?" Sara replied.

"He pushed me against the wall," Michael said. His eyes were clear. But he was lying. She knew she wasn't getting the whole story. There were gaps. Things that didn't make sense. There was more to the story.

"Michael, why aren't you telling me everything?" she asked.

Michael stared at her. "Don't make me lie to you," he said. "Please."

There was a real plea there. But what he told her wasn't enough.

"Lay down, Michael," she said, turning away from him. "I need to take a look at you."


	19. Chapter 19

Those words sent adrenaline into his system in droves. No. This would not happen. He was not going to allow it.

He jumped to his feet, landing soft as a cat. Sara still had her back to him. "I'm sorry, Sara," he said, and then he grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her tightly enough that she couldn't move her arms.

She gasped, but didn't scream. It surprised him. He just held onto her, feeling her in his arms. She fit there, he noticed, and then hated himself. She shouldn't be there like this, forced, not of her own free will. He was a monster.

"Michael, what are you doing?" she asked. She sounded breathless, her body stiff in his arms.

A good question. What was he doing? He hadn't thought. He hadn't meant to grab her, hadn't meant to do this. No good could come out of this; he was going to end up in the SHU for the rest of his sentence for assaulting the prison doctor! He didn't know where he was going with this; he didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to scare her even. He just wanted her to…to listen to him. To…to let him stay a man in her eyes. To respect him enough not to violate the small amount of trust he felt for her, the trust that grew daily. The affection there. That grab had been an impulse, a frightened decision. A bad one. And now she was afraid of him; she thought he would hurt her. She thought he was just another con. He heard her swallow and felt his heart break.

"Am I hurting you, Sara?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle. "I don't want to hurt you."

Her head shook, her perfect, sunshine-scented hair tickling his chin. "No," she whispered. There was a slight shake in her voice. "What are you doing?"

"This wasn't planned," he said. "I never…I didn't mean to…" He breathed out. Her hair blew away from her face.

"Michael…Michael, just relax. You don't have to do—"

"I'm not going to hurt you, Sara," he said. His whisper was hoarse. "You know I wouldn't hurt you, right? I came for you, during the riot. I got you away from those guys. Because I didn't want them to hurt you. You know that, right?" He could hear the insecurity in his voice, but couldn't change it. More than anything, he didn't want her to think he would hurt her. "I was afraid for you…afraid they would hurt you. And I didn't…couldn't…let that happen." He breathed in her scent again.

"I know that," she whispered back. "Michael, please. What are you doing?" It was a genuine question, lacking some of the fear he'd heard earlier.

"You need to promise me something," he said, still holding her tight against his chest. Her white lab jacket was rough against his bare skin. "Please. Promise me."

"What do you want me to promise?" Sara whispered. She was still in his arms, not struggling, not fighting. He wondered why. Why hadn't she screamed? Why wasn't she struggling?

"Don't hate me, Sara."

"I don't," she said, her voice soft and sincere.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'm really sorry. I wouldn't hurt you, Sara. Never."

Suddenly, he let her go. She turned and faced him, without even stepping away. She was still within arm's reach. Another surprise; he thought she would have ran away, looking for a guard immediately.

"Michael," she said. Her dark eyes were locked on his, pleading with him. She had such beautiful, expressive eyes. "Michael. Right there? I just trusted you."

He stared at her. Her eyes never wavered. She took a deep breath.

"Now it's your turn, Michael. You need to trust me."


	20. Chapter 20

He watched her warily as he seated himself on the edge of the exam table. The sheet was wrapped around his hips, and he ran his fingers against the institutional, white fabric. His expression was a nearly unreadable mix of fear and confusion and something else.

Sara knew what she had to do, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't figure out how to do it. She didn't want to embarrass him, to cause him any more humiliation or degradation today. No matter what she said to herself, he wasn't just another patient. Not just another con, or just another inmate. He was something else.

She'd been surprised when he'd grabbed her. Frightened, even, for half a second. But then she'd noticed something.

His heartbeat, against her back. Thudding, so hard she could feel it. She could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. The fear. He was afraid. And somehow, his fear had stopped hers.

He hadn't hurt her. His arms around her had been firm, but not painful. She had felt his breathing move her hair, felt his arms shaking. And all she'd wanted to do was turn around and put her arms around him, hold him, show him that she could be trusted.

So she hadn't screamed. She hadn't run. For once, she'd just trusted her heart. And her heart had been right. He'd let her go. He wouldn't hurt her. He was different. He wasn't just another con.

"Michael, I need a direct answer," she said, walking closer. He looked towards her while scrupulously avoiding her eyes. "Did T-Bag…" She swallowed. It was a hard question.

"He didn't," Michael said. His eyes were resting on her collarbone. Self-consciously, she touched it. Michael's eyes dropped.

"Did he rape you?" she asked. She knew she had to get the entire question out, but once she did, the words hung in the room, ugly and painful.

Michael shook his head. "No." His voice was distant.

She studied him. He looked off in the distance, out the window. "Michael, look at me," she said.

After a long moment, Michael turned his head and faced her. His eyes met hers. "No," he said. "He didn't."

He didn't turn away. She looked into the depths of those eyes, registering all the pain there, all the lies, and all the truth.

"All right," Sara replied. She took a step closer. "Please, lie down Michael. On your back."

His eyes searched hers. She let him, knowing it was only fair. Finally, he nodded, a slow, painful nod. He laid back, the sheet still over his hips.

First, she looked over his shoulders, arms, and chest. There were some scratches and many dark spots that weren't ink, or at least, not entirely ink. Dark purple, bluish, blackened bruises mottling the tattoos, making the patterns less discernable, less defined from a distance. She gently prodded his stomach and ribs, feeling for any sign of internal injuries, bleeding from organs, bruised or broken ribs. She didn't feel anything indicating that kind of damage. And on the outside, there were no burns, no blood, no obvious wounds. Now…the difficult part.

Carefully, with one rubber-gloved hand, Sara pushed down the sheet and the waistband of Michael's boxers. His muscles tensed; she noticed it even through the tattoos. She deliberately left him covered, just exposing one hip.

A bruise, shaped like a hand, was wrapped around his hipbone. She could clearly see the thumb, and how the fingers had curved around the side of his body. This grab had been from the front. Carefully, she pulled the waistband back up. Only then, did she hear Michael breathe.

"Relax, Michael," she said quietly. She heard him swallow hard as she walked around to the other side of the table, to look at his other hip.

There was another handprint here, same position. But also, there was another bruise, lower on his hip, and one that slid out of sight around the back of his thigh. She looked over both his legs, and treated his knees, both of which had been scraped bloody.

"When's the last time you scraped your knees so spectacularly, Michael?" she asked, trying to lighten the situation as she finished bandaging one knee.

"Many years ago, I'm sure," he replied, sounding grateful for her attempt. "I believe Linc was trying to teach me how to bike down some stairs…"

Sara managed a chuckle at the picture in her mind, of the two brothers in their younger years.

"He meant well," Michael said, and Sara saw the ghost of a grin touch his lips. "Our mother had a fit. I think she whacked him with a spoon!"

He was almost smiling. Sarah wanted to let him smile, wanted to leave him be, but she couldn't. She had to finish examining him.

"Okay, Michael," she said. "I need you to turn over."

And the smile was gone, and his eyes were blank, and Sara hated herself for caring so damn much.


	21. Chapter 21

Michael forced himself not to care. _Just go away_, he told himself.

As a kid, he'd done it all the time. The proper term, he knew, was disassociation. All his therapy, all his reading, had taught him that. But whatever it was, it worked.

Michael turned over, onto his stomach. Carefully, deliberately. And then he let his eyes go blank, and let his mind go.

_It was hot. The sand burned under his feet, and he squealed. "Mom! It's hot!"_

_"Of course it's hot, you dumb ass. White sand's gonna be hot." 15 year old Lincoln pulled off his shirt and threw it at Michael before running for the water._

_"Lincoln, be nice to your brother!" his mother called, but Lincoln was already in the water, disappearing into the waves. "Michael, come here. You need some sunscreen, or you're going to burn up."_

_Obediently, Michael walked over to his mother, dropping Lincoln's shirt carelessly in the sand. She glopped a handful of sunscreen on his back._

_"Cold!" he howled, dancing away._

_"Well, nothing satisfies you, huh Michael?" his mother teased. "You're like Goldilocks!"_

_"I am not!" he said, pouting. "Goldilocks is a girl!" At seven years old, this was a very important distinction._

_"Not unlike you, huh Mikey?" Suddenly, Lincoln was there, grabbing him around the waist and carrying him, kicking and screaming, towards the ocean. _

_"Put me down!" Michael yelled, but he was laughing._

_"Put you down?" Lincoln asked. "I don't know. Should I put him down, Mom?" he called back to their mother, who was shaking her head from her place on the shore._

_"Lincoln Burrows, stop harassing your brother," she scolded good-naturedly._

_"Put me down, Linc!" Michael said. "Come on, man!" He hit at his brother's back with his small fists, but Lincoln didn't seem to notice. "Put me down!"_

_Lincoln kept running until he was waist-deep in water. "Okay," he said, and suddenly, he threw his brother as far and high as he could, into the ocean._

_Michael landed with a loud splash, water rushing all around him. He stood up, sputtering wildly. "Lincoln! I'm gonna get you!" He grabbed a handful of sand from the bottom of the ocean and lobbed it at his older brother, missing by several feet._

_"Go ahead and try," Lincoln called, splashing water at him. _

_"Wait a second, Michael. Come here, and let me put some sunscreen on you," Mom called from the shore. "I am not going to listen to you crying about your sunburn because you decided you could play on the beach, in Florida, without sunscreen. Come here."_

_Lincoln made a grab for him as he jogged in, and he shrieked. "Mom!" dodging his older brother's grip._

_"Lincoln! I'm going to send you after the aloe vera if he gets burned, do you hear me?" His mother tried to sound stern, but there was a hint of laughter in her voice._

_"Take all the fun out of it," Lincoln mumbled, but he was still grinning._

_Michael watched his brother from the shore as his mom rubbed sunscreen onto him. Suddenly, he wasn't paying attention to Michael, or to Mom, anymore. His eyes were on some girls laying on towels a little ways down the beach. Michael smiled to himself._

_"All right honey. Go play," his mom said, patting him on the back. He grinned at her over his shoulder and ran back to the water, grabbing two handfuls of wet sand. _

_He snuck over to Lincoln, who was so busy watching the girls he didn't even notice his approach. Michael got within three feet, making sure he wouldn't miss._

_SPLAT! He threw the first handful. It hit Lincoln square in the back of the head, squishing into his hair and oozing down his back._

_Lincoln whirled around, looking pissed. "What the fu—"_

_SPLAT! Michael threw the second handful._

_He only had a second to enjoy his brother's startled face, dripping wet sand, and then he had to run, because Lincoln was chasing him, and his eyes were flashing._

_"Michael, you little shit! Get your ass back here right now so I can kick it for you!" _

_"Lincoln, don't you dare!" His mother's voice, mingling with Lincoln's._

_"Gotcha!" Michael kept running, giggling wildly. _

His brother could have caught him, easily, he knew that. But he hadn't. He'd just chased him, throwing wet sand, splashing water, making empty, laughing threats.

It was where he often went, if he had to. And it was better than the real world, right now.


	22. Chapter 22

She looked at his back, past the intricate patterns of the tattoo to the skin underneath. That shoulder wound…it was as though he'd been stabbed with a nail. Stabbed, and then it had been dragged down his flesh. She bit back a grimace. The pain that would cause…he'd need something stronger than aspirin, that was for sure.

On his upper arms, she could see darkness that wasn't ink. Bruising. When she looked closer, she saw more handprints, much like the ones curling around his hipbones. But…

Two different sizes of handprints. One set was smaller, thinner…the other was thicker and meaty. She bit her lip. "Michael?"

He didn't answer her. She looked at his face. His eyes were blank, like fresh canvas.

"Michael? Michael, answer me."

No response. Very gently, she put her hand on an unwounded portion of his back. "Michael," she tried again, gently shaking him.

He didn't move. Now she was worried. She pulled a penlight out of her pocket and checked his pupils. They reacted normally; that was good. But he didn't seem to hear her.

She decided to finish examining him. He could simply be ignoring her, she decided. Trying to think of something else. Going to his 'happy place.'

She wondered what Michael Scofield's happy place was.

She moved the sheet off of his hips, exposing pristine white boxers. No blood. With rape victims, there was generally blood. Her mind flashed to other inmates she'd seen, some after a run in with the very same Theodore Bagwell. She shook her head to clear the images.

He'd sworn he hadn't been raped. She wanted to believe him, for his sake. She left his boxers alone, moving to his hip.

She looked at the bruise on his hip. She couldn't tell what had caused it; the shape was indistinct, and the bruise was lighter than the rest. More of a splotch than an actual bruise, really. She turned her attention to the mark on the back of his thigh.

This one was dark, heavy, and rounded. A lot of force had gone into it. Perhaps from a kick, she decided. She wondered how T-Bag could cause such a mark, with the soft, prison-issue canvas shoes he had. Maybe he'd hit him with something. Michael hadn't told her the whole story. She knew he wouldn't.

She looked at the backs of his legs. They were unmarked. He looked okay.

She thought for a second. Did she believe him? He didn't appear to have been raped, but obviously, she couldn't know that for sure without checking. Protocol said to finish the exam; do a kit. If it had been another prisoner, she would have checked him. If necessary, she would have called for guards to assist her, to hold him down, to allow her to examine him. It was just her job; she had to do it.

But it was Michael. And something inside of her hurt at the idea of doing that to him.

She'd have to trust him. Again.


	23. Chapter 23

"Michael, you need to answer me." Sara's voice was insistent, and it broke through his haze.

He blinked and looked at her. Suddenly, he realized he was sitting up, wrapped in a sheet again, and…still dressed. So, she hadn't, after all.

"Michael?" Sara repeated. Her brown eyes were staring intently at his.

"Yes?" Michael replied, looking back. He saw her take a deep breath.

"What were you doing?" she asked after a long moment. Her arms crossed over her chest, defensively.

"What do you mean?" he asked, intentionally playing stupid.

"I've spent the last five minutes trying to get your attention," Sara replied. "Were you ignoring me that entire time?"

He tried to smile at her, charmingly. She gave him a look. "Michael."

"Are we finished here?" he asked. A stupid question, considering that he didn't have clothes, but he needed a change of subject, now.

Sara sighed. "I have some pain pills for you," she said. He was grateful that she allowed the subject to change.

"Pain pills?" Michael asked.

"Once the Novocain wears off from your shoulder, it's going to be painful," Sara replied.

"How painful?" Michael asked. He hated pills; anything that altered how his brain functioned made him nervous. Now, he more or less understood how his brain functioned. On pills, he was lost.

"I'd take the pills," Sara replied. She handed him a paper cup with two white pills in it, and a Dixie cup full of water.

Reluctantly, he swallowed the pills. The water stung the cuts in his mouth, and he grimaced.

"I almost asked Warden Pope to get your brother," Sara said.

Suddenly, Michael sat bolt upright, gripping the edges of the exam table with white knuckles. His heart thumped hard in his chest.

"NO! You didn't! You can't—" Visions of a furious Lincoln killing T-Bag entered his mind. Also, visions of his brother's face, when he realized what his younger brother really was. Trash. He couldn't know.

"I didn't. You came around in time," Sara said. Michael relaxed ever-so-slightly

"You can't pull Lincoln into this," Michael said. "It's not his business." He forced himself to take a deep breath.

"I was slightly desperate Michael. You weren't responding. Do you do that often?" she asked.

Michael looked at Sara out of the corner of his eye. She was sharp. Damn.

"Do what?" he asked, desperately hoping she would just leave it be.

"Go blank like that? Check out? Have a small vacation from the world?" He heard something that wasn't quite professional in her voice. "Or is this disassociation a new phenomenon?"

"It's not," he replied. She looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.

"I see," she said.

He wondered if she did. If she really saw.

He hoped not.


	24. Chapter 24

Sucre had heard rumors, about T-Bag and his cellie. They'd been flying all day, that T-Bag had finally bagged the pretty fish, that Michael had been stabbed before T-Bag had gotten him, that they'd had to carry him to the infirmary. He didn't want to believe them; not about Michael.

Surely the fish hadn't been that stupid, to let T-Bag get him alone. Surely, he wouldn't have been so stupid? He'd known T-Bag wanted a piece of him; he'd known that the man was ruthless, was scum, would go for anything on two legs. And maybe on four, Sucre had heard rumors about that too…

But the fish been missing after P.I. and so had T-Bag. Sucre had noticed it not long after he'd left the guard break room. He'd wanted to go back, but Stolte had stopped him. So he'd begged Patterson.

"Please, boss. T-Bag and Scofield are still back there," he said. "I ain't got a good feeling, boss. You gotta go get 'em, please." He knew he was begging, but Patterson actually seemed to have a heart. And he hadn't had a good feeling; he'd seen how T-Bag had been eyeing his cellie.

The Sink had heard him. "What do you mean, Michael and T-Bag are back there?" he'd asked, grabbing Sucre again, in that way that made Sucre want to throw up his hands and pray loudly in Spanish.

"Speak English, man! Where the fuck is my brother?" The Sink's eyes were just as intense as Michael's, in a different way. Sucre could barely string together two coherent words because of fear.

"I don't know! But he—and T-Bag—I just—"

The shove the Sink had given him had sent him careening into a wall. Sucre had been glad, personally, that that was all he'd gotten; he'd been ready for the beating of a lifetime. Scofield had himself a fucking scary brother! But when Lincoln turned to Patterson, and demanded that he go find Michael, Patterson had gone to check for them.

Sucre didn't know what had happened since then. He'd been deposited back in his cell without another word. It had been almost three hours since P.I. and he hadn't heard anything. No one had seen T-Bag either. He recited another prayer under his breath, wishing desperately for some kind of news.

Manche strolled by cell 40, pushing the laundry cart. Sucre grabbed his fat arm. "_Primo_, talk to me, man."

Manche startled. "Shit, Sucre. Don't do that man."

"You hear anything about the fish? My cellie?" Sucre bit his lower lip unconsciously, looking at his cousin.

Manche looked left and right, presumably for bulls, before speaking. "Yeah, I heard something." He swallowed, chins wobbling.

"Well, you better tell me, or else I'm gonna—"

"It's not good, _ese_. The Bag's in the SHU, and your cellie…" Manche trailed off.

Sucre grabbed the collar of his cousin's shirt and yanked him against the bars. "Manche, today!"

"Okay! He's in the infirmary, man!" Manche threw his hands up. "T-Bag's saying all kinds of shit 'bout what he done to that fish, nothing good either. And the Sink's crazed, man. He's gone _loco_ in there. I ain't seen anything like that before!" Manche's face was pressed against the bars. "Why would the Sink care anyway? He and your cellie hooked up or something?"

Sucre flinched at the idea. "Fucking gross, man," he said, pushing him away. "Get me some clean stuff. And Michael too."

"Didn't you hear me? He's in the Infirmary!"

"Didn't you hear me?" Sucre spit back. "Gimme the clean laundry, now."

Manche handed him two sets of clean uniforms. "All right, man. There you go."

Sucre watched Manche walk off, and bowed his head, crossing himself. What could he do for Michael now, but pray?

"_Dios_, have mercy," he whispered. It couldn't really be true. Michael was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. No way he would of let T-Bag at him like that. No way.

"Damn, _Papi_. Come back," he said under his breath.


	25. Chapter 25

He dressed in a new set of prison blues, which Katie had provided for him. "It's laundry day anyway, Scofield," she said.

He smiled at her. "Thank you," he said.

The guard that came for him was Patterson. Michael tried to force back a blush, rather unsuccessfully. Patterson had always been okay to him; not kind exactly, but not harsh either. But this man had seen him on his belly, tied up, half-undressed, and assumed attacked. Assumed raped. At his worst, at his weakest and most vulnerable.

His first words didn't help. "You okay, Scofield?" he asked, and something in his tone made it sting. Michael could hear everything left unsaid there. He was a victim now. Not a man anymore, now more like a child, someone to be treated with gentleness, with kid gloves.

"I'm fine," he said roughly. He didn't need that. He didn't need kindness, mercy, anything of the sort. Not from the guards.

Patterson's eyes seemed to register that. They sharpened slightly. "All right, then." He pulled out the cuffs. Michael was almost grateful for that. He held out his hands and watched passively as Peterson cuffed them. "Let's go."

Patterson gave a nod towards the door, but didn't grab his arm or shove him. Well, he'd always been more polite, Michael supposed, so that wasn't really a change. And considering the sheer number of bruises covering Michael's arms and body right now, it wasn't like he needed to be shoved again.

The walk back to Gen Pop was familiar; he'd only walked it dozens of times. Mostly after insulin shots; once after Abruzzi had chopped off his toes. That had been a painful walk; this one was too, in its own, non-physical way.

Rumors flew in Gen Pop. He never understood how men who were locked in cells could learn information so quickly and pass it on as if there were no bars between them. Certainly, in its travels, the information would have warped and twisted. By now, Sucre probably thought him dead, or at least maimed, brutally beaten, broken limbed, raped, and all other manner of horrors. He closed his eyes for a bare moment. Thankfully, none of them fully true.

"T-Bag's in the SHU," Patterson said. Michael tripped, not expecting Patterson to speak The guard grabbed his arm, steadying him. It hurt, and he gritted his teeth.

"Did anyone speak with him yet?" Michael asked once he caught his breath. The plan. It was not inconceivable, at all, that T-Bag would rat them all out. He had to do something about this, now.

"Speak to him? Everyone knows what happened, Scofield. Once the doctor corroborates—"

"What happened?" Michael said. His voice rose slightly, and he turned towards the guard. "Nothing happened. He didn't get what he wanted."

Michael and Patterson stared each other down for a long moment. Michael's heart was beating fast with anxiety. He needed to get to T-Bag, now, and keep him quiet. This incident could not ruin the plan. No matter what Michael had to sacrifice.

"Scofield—"

"Patterson. Please." Michael put everything he had into those words. It had to be.

Patterson shook his head. "Come on, Scofield. We need to get you back to Gen Pop."

Suddenly, Michael had an idea. "No," he said.

"What?" Patterson said.. "What kind of shit are you trying to pull, Scofield?"

"I'm not going back to Gen Pop," he replied.

Patterson grabbed his arm again, and Michael winced. "Where the hell do you think you're gonna go, then, Scofield?"

"The SHU," he replied.

"You're fucking crazy. Move your ass," Patterson said, pushing him forward. Michael resisted, readying himself for the pain he knew was coming. "I said move!"

Michael shut his eyes for half a second, and then looked at Patterson again. "Please. Don't make me hit you." He kept his voice reasonable, quiet, and non-threatening. He didn't want to end up in the whack shack, after all; just the SHU. Preferably, near T-Bag.

"Are you kidding me?" Patterson asked.

"You've been very kind to me; I'd rather not ruin that. But I need to go to the SHU, so if I have to, I will hit you. And I'll regret it." Michael let his blue eyes clearly meet Patterson's shocked brown ones.

"You have to be kidding me." Patterson was staring at him like Michael wasn't speaking English. Michael sighed. Perhaps the truth would get him what he wanted this time?

"I want to talk to T-Bag," he said.

"You're off your fucking rocker, Scofield. Get your ass moving." Patterson stepped away from him, watching his hands. So he did believe he'd take a swing at him at least.

"One way or another, I'm getting to the SHU. I'd really rather not have to attack someone," Michael said.

They stared at each other again. Michael kept his face reasonable, but his eyes intense. He needed this. Patterson was a human being, unlike so many of the bulls. He might just allow it.

Finally, the guard sighed. "You fucking shit, Scofield. Fine. But you get five fucking minutes, and then you're headed back for Gen Pop. And you're talking through the door, 'cause the doc's seen enough of you today."

"Thanks, boss." Michael didn't smile, but he hoped Patterson could see something of his gratitude in his eyes.


	26. Chapter 26

Lincoln thought he was going to explode. "Shut the FUCK UP!" he roared. He was frantically pacing back and forth, his hands clenched in fists so tight his knuckles were white. He'd never killed a man before—irony of ironies—but if he could get to T-Bag at this moment, the man would be gone. Lincoln would kill him with his bare hands.

"What, Sink? Truth hurt?" T-Bag's voice crooned, taunting, through the drain of the cell. "Your brother sure was a pretty little fish…although, he's not so pretty anymore. But when he gets scared, those eyes of his, they're so bright and glistening and pretty…makes me so damn hard—"

Lincoln couldn't help the wordless roar of rage and disgust that escaped his throat at those words, dropping to his knees on the concrete. "You're a fucking dead man!" Lincoln spit, directing his words into the drain to guarantee that T-Bag would hear them. "You better pray that we never, EVER see each other without steel bars between us, or you are going to die the most agonizing death imaginable!"

"Those words are certainly picturesque, but in practice, I'm sure my imagination can come up with demises too gruesome even for you, Sink," T-Bag drawled. "You've only killed once. I've only been caught once. A six-for-one, but still."

Lincoln could practically see T-Bag run his tongue over his teeth, in that slithery, lizard-like way he always did. The last thing he wanted to think about was this man hurting his brother, touching his brother, even talking to his brother. An animal like that…belonged in a cage.

"Not too observant, that boy," T-Bag continued. "You'd think he'd be smart enough not to let himself be the last left in the break room with me, wouldn't you?"

Lincoln startled. Michael was smart. And more than that, he had L.L.I. He never missed anything. How the fuck had he let that happen?

"Would almost think the boy wanted a little taste of it," T-Bag slimed on.

"SHUT UP!" Lincoln shouted again. He slammed his fist hard against the concrete block wall, barely registering the pain of his knuckles on concrete. He hit it again.

It wasn't that Michael wasn't smart, Lincoln realized angrily. It was his lack of common sense that was the problem. Common sense dictated that you stayed out of one on one situations with a rapist, murder, and pedophile who wanted a piece of you. But Michael didn't have common-sense. He had Michael-sense.

Michael-sense was what had caused him to get a tattoo over half his body and commit a crime to be put into prison to break his brother out. Michael-sense was why he felt guilty over that kid who killed himself, why he'd hit T-Bag in the knee with a crowbar so he wouldn't attack that wigger kid, why hiding a piece of soap shaped like a cell-phone to test his cell-mate's loyalty had seemed like a good idea. Michael-sense. Sometimes it masqueraded as plain idiocy.

"You sure your brother has no sexual proclivities towards men, Sink? Your boy's no virgin, you know. He told me so himself." The words were disgusting, but it was the sick satisfaction in T-Bag's voice that sent him over the edge.

Lincoln attacked the wall again with a vengeance, hammering blows against the concrete, bellowing wordlessly with fury. Distantly, he heard T-Bag laughing, and felt pain as his knuckles split open on the concrete, blood dripping over his hands.

Suddenly, the window to his door popped open. "Lincoln, what the fuck's going on!" Lewis barked. "Stop it!"

He hit the wall one more time and pushed away, falling into the corner of the cell. "I'm bleeding, boss," he said hoarsely. His throat was sore from all his yelling.

"Well, no fuck. Christ." Lewis pulled out his nightstick and a set of cuffs. "Get up, hands behind your back. Don't do anything stupid." He opened the door and entered.

"Why?" Lincoln asked, staring at his bloody hands.

"Do it, con!"

Lincoln stood, putting his hands behind him. He felt the cuffs snap around his wrists. "Where we goin' boss?" he asked.

"Infirmary. Move," Lewis said. He gave him a push, sending him into the hallway.

Infirmary. Michael was there. Lincoln nodded and started to walk, Lewis directly behind him.

He heard footsteps coming from the other direction; another unlucky con to be locked in the SHU. Lincoln kept his head down. He didn't care who it was; he just wanted to see Michael.

"Linc!"

His head snapped up. "Michael?" He froze for a split second, taking in his brother's image. His face was bruised, battered, his lip had been split, but despite a black eye, those blue-green eyes were locked on his, wide with astonishment.

He lurched forward, and his brother had also. The guards grabbed them, of course, but they were only a few feet away from each other.

"Are you okay?" Lincoln demanded. His mind was working fast. His brother was walking, not in the infirmary, being brought to the SHU. He must be okay, at least medically.

"I'm okay," Michael replied. His eyes flashed multiple emotions before locking down completely, and Lincoln wanted to grab him, to demand the entire story, but Patterson said, "Scofield, five minutes."

Michael nodded. "Later, Linc." Lincoln could see it in Michael's face. A plan was being worked already, and he'd just have to trust him. He nodded again, his heart aching.

Lewis gave him another push, sending him forward. He nudged the front of his brother's shoulder with his own as he passed, all the contact he could manage.

"Keep walking, con," Lewis said. "You're bleeding all over the fucking floor."


	27. Chapter 27

Michael felt himself let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd seen his brother, and Lincoln's face only showed concern. No disgust. It was a relief.

Now, Michael had other concerns. Patterson led him to a door and said, "Five minutes. Talk." He left Michael there, walking down the hall to take the spot Lewis had vacated to chat with the other guard there.

"T-Bag," Michael said. He kept his voice down, not wanting any of the SHU's other occupants to overhear their conversation.

He heard a scrabbling noise coming from within, like a rat through floorboards. "Alackaday, is that you, Pretty?" T-Bag drawled. Michael could hear something akin to delight in the man's voice. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He forced himself to stay still To keep the plan safe.

"It's me," he confirmed, feeling his stomach twist as he replied to T-Bag's pet name. It was just a name…but a name had power. He pushed the thought away.

"You comin' back for more?" T-Bag asked. "Decided you want a taste, after all?"

Michael couldn't help but flinch; he was glad T-Bag couldn't see him. "Hardly," he said, forcing his voice to sound as dry and sarcastic as possible. "I merely have a question for you."

"What's your question, Pretty?" T-Bag replied. "I could have answered all your questions, you know. All it would have taken…well, I suppose it would have been kinda quick, there in the C.O. break room, but later, I could have answered them all. Coulda had you beggin' for me to—"

"Are you still coming with us?" Michael asked, cutting him off before his stomach revolted.

"Still comin' with you?" T-Bag asked. "Well, I suppose that depends, Pretty."

"Depends on what?" Michael asked, swallowing hard.

"Depends on if you think I'm stupid enough to believe you'll really take me, after our little tryst this afternoon." T-Bag's voice was cold.

"I don't think you're stupid," Michael said. Unfortunately, it was true. He thought T-Bag was many things: twisted, evil, cruel, sadistic, disgusting, perverted, and a waste of oxygen. But stupid was not on that list. "The question is genuine."

"So explain to me, why you would take me along with you," T-Bag said. "Considering that you know that as soon as you turn your back, as soon as you drop your guard, I'm gonna be in your pants, with or without your permission? Seems like a risk a sane man wouldn't be willing to take." His voice lilted, playing with the words. Those words made Michael want to retch; he swallowed again.

"I'm getting him out," Michael replied, his voice barely a whisper. "And if that means I have to take you with me, so be it."

"So basically, you're willing to give up your body to save your brother? That's awful noble, Pretty. And I'm sure gonna enjoy it," T-Bag replied. "You can think about that, as you do your planning."

"I already gave up my body to save my brother," Michael said quietly.

"Oh, do tell," T-Bag said, curiosity coloring his tone. "We never did get to finish this morning; if I weren't such a gentleman, I might call you a tease."

"You've seen my tattoos." Michael's mouth was dry, but he swallowed anyway, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. "So you're coming with?"

"Hell yes," T-Bag replied. "And I'm gonna have you; wait and see."

"I don't think so," Michael replied coldly. "I don't drop my guard."

"Oh really? So what was this morning? You said you didn't want it…was that a lie, Pretty? It's okay, if you have a kinky little thing for rape fantasies. I won't tell your brother about your dirty little secret—"

"It won't happen again," Michael said, cutting him off. He didn't want to hear T-Bag's accusations, mirrors of old horrors in his mind. Another voice. "_You know you like this, boy. Don't try to pretend you don't."_ He shook his head to clear it.

"We will see about that, Pretty. Yes, indeed, we will see." He heard T-Bag smack his lips. The sound twisted his gut again. Somehow, this man knew how to get to him. Not how to get to Michael Scofield, the man, but how to find Michael Scofield, the boy, and terrorize him. A shudder ran down his spine.

"I guess we will see," Michael said expressionlessly. "We'll talk later, T-Bag."

"Bye, Pretty," T-Bag replied teasingly.

Michael stepped back from the door and took a deep, silent breath. The plan was safe. Everything else was secondary. It would be okay. Somehow.

He heard footsteps, and turned to see Patterson walking towards him. "You gonna threaten to take a swing at me again, Scofield, or can we get your ass back to Gen Pop now?"

"Let's go, boss," Michael said. He could hear how colorless his voice was, and saw Patterson tilt his head to study him. He looked away. After a long moment, Patterson spoke.

"Alright. Move it, then."


	28. Chapter 28

T-Bag could hear the boy standing out there, breathing. He probably didn't realize how well he could be read, just by the way he was breathing. T-Bag had got something, hit a sore spot. Something about his dirty little secret…He had one. Maybe several. And he didn't want anyone, especially his brother, to know.

T-Bag smirked. Knowledge was power. He could use this to his advantage.

The guard took Pretty away, leaving T-Bag with his thoughts. He remembered when he'd first seen the man.

He'd been hearing about this new fish, the pretty one. Some said he had blue eyes, some said they were more greenish, pale skin, dark hair, tall and thin, swimmer's build. But when T-Bag actually saw him, sitting on his set of bleachers, it had nearly taken his breath away.

He was the prettiest boy he'd ever seen. T-Bag had wanted him immediately.

He'd been so disgusted when T-Bag had offered him his pocket. He'd tried to hide it behind a smirk that made T-Bag want to throw him down and take him right there, but T-Bag saw. At the time, he had figured it was just the usual fear and revulsion of a straight man being asked to barter his body. But now that he thought about it…there'd been more, flashing in those eyes. He hadn't noticed it at the time, because he was busy enjoying the fear and disgust. But there had been a knowing there, also. This boy already knew what it was to barter his body, to be used.

It made sense, T-Bag supposed. If the boy had been that pretty when he was growing up, well…a delicate, pale little thing, with long lashes and bright eyes, long, lanky limbs, dark hair…he'd certainly catch the eyes of anyone with a taste for those things. And T-Bag knew there were plenty of people out there with a liking for such things. A mama's boyfriend…a brother's pal…a clergyman…whatever. A random stranger, for that matter. T-Bag had played plenty of roles in his life.

He decided that next time, he'd do it different. His favorite part wasn't the sex. Or rather, it wasn't exclusively the sex. Sex was great. But even better was the power. He'd tasted that power this morning, with Pretty underneath him, helpless, trembling ever-so-slightly. He had seen the child inside the man, and knew that was something Pretty would never allow, if he could help it. Because that just gave T-Bag more power. A veritable banquet of power for his taking. He'd find every last bit, and claim it all.

He would find out exactly what Pretty's secrets were. Every last one of them. Slowly. Painfully. Through innuendo and touch, through forced submission and speech. Until he had the boy begging him to just do it, just take him, just get it over with. Because a boy like that would, eventually. That boy would know that the physical act could be less intrusive than what came before. T-Bag smirked to himself in the darkness, enjoying his imaginations.

He would hurt him. Humiliate him. Let him know that T-Bag had complete control over him, and that he was powerless. And then, when he had him right where he wanted him, how he wanted him, THEN he would make Pretty his.

It would be a beautiful thing.


	29. Chapter 29

Lincoln stumbled as Lewis gave him a shove into the infirmary. "Dr. Tancredi?" Lewis said.

"Exam one," she replied, rushing by without even looking at him. "Name?"

"Burrows. Lincoln," Lewis replied.

The doctor stopped. Lincoln noticed her eyes flicker as she looked up at him. "I'll be in there in a moment. Un-cuff him, please," she said. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and then she was rushing away again, into a different exam room.

Lewis grumbled, "Un-cuff him…un-cuff the death row inmate. Sure doc." He pushed Lincoln into the exam room and stood there, staring at Lincoln. Lincoln looked away. He stared out the barred window, seeing the blue sky. Thinking about his brother.

Michael had looked all right. Yes, he was bruised, and had obviously been beaten, but he seemed okay. Lincoln clenched his fists again, wishing he could beat that piece of scum who would dare to mess with his brother. Eventually, though. Eventually.

He'd still only heard rumors about what had happened to Michael. Rumors, and T-Bag's disgusting bragging that had turned his stomach, made him furious, made him want to kill, made him want to vomit. But considering how Michael looked…T-Bag couldn't be telling the truth. No way his brother could have been used like T-Bag claimed and still be walking, still be awake and in this world. Lincoln had seen how Michael had shut down as a kid, and even later, how he could just force everything out and just not be there. No reaction, no nothing. It was scary as hell to watch, but Lincoln understood why he did it. Something about that Low Latent Inhibition thing, and how he could just retreat inside himself. At least, that was how Michael had explained it.

Suddenly, the door to the exam room swung open, and Lincoln's head turned to face it. The doctor came in, holding a chart. She looked at him, and then at the guard. "Officer Lewis, please un-cuff him," she said, her voice no nonsense.

"He's a death-row inmate," Lewis said.

"He'll be fine," the doctor said. "Un-cuff him."

Lincoln saw Lewis hesitate. It made him angry. He would never hurt this woman, the doctor who he could tell his brother had a soft spot for, even though he'd never admit it. Hell, he wasn't much for violence against women anyway, unless they struck first and were armed.

"I'm not gonna hurt her, Lewis. She's gotta fix my hands; how the hell's she supposed to do that if they're cuffed at the small of my back?" Lincoln said, trying to sound reasonable.

The doctor nodded, and finally, shaking his head, Lewis removed the cuffs. Lincoln rubbed at his wrists, which had blood all over them.

"You can wait outside," she told Lewis. Surprisingly, the man walked away, letting the exam room door slam behind him.

The doctor gave him an apologetic half-smile that surprised him. When was the last time he'd seen one of those? Years ago; probably when he was a teenager. He smiled back, almost without thinking.

"Take a seat, Lincoln," she said, gesturing towards the exam table. Lincoln sat on the edge, feeling kind of silly. He looked down at his hands; the bleeding had slowed but covered his hands and wrists.

She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a clean washcloth and wet it. "I'm just going to clean off your hands first," she said. She took his hand and started to wash it, and he was struck by how small her hands were, compared to his own giant mitts.

"You saw Michael this morning," Lincoln said. This was his chance to get information from the source, after all…it didn't look like he'd see Michael again any time soon. The doctor startled, looking up at him. "Is he okay?"

He saw her eyes flicker slightly, much like Michael's did when he was trying to make a decision. He let his hand actually close around hers. "Please, doc. I only got to see him for five seconds. He didn't tell me anything. Is he alright?" He could hear the desperation in his voice.

"You saw him? How did you see him?" The doctor sounded concerned.

"Patterson was taking him to the SHU," Lincoln explained. "Is he okay?"

"Patterson said he was taking him back to Gen Pop," the doctor replied. Her eyes caught Lincoln's for a second, and he saw something there. So this little thing Michael had for the doctor wasn't exactly one-sided? That was interesting. Except, he had to find out more immediately important things right now. He saved it for later.

"Michael wasn't fighting him or anything. Patterson let him stop and talk to me for a second," Lincoln replied.

The doctor blinked rapidly. She handed him the washcloth. "Clean the blood off your hands; don't re-open the scabs. I'll be right back."

She disappeared out the door in a flash, leaving him alone. He wiped at his bloody hands, turning the institutionally bleached cloth an orangey, pink color, dotted with bright red. He wondered what she was doing, what she was checking on. Michael, obviously, but he wished she'd share some information with him.

He looked at his now-clean hands. A little blood still oozed from a few of his knuckles; he dabbed at it occasionally, waiting for the doctor to come back.

Finally, she did. She looked more relaxed, Lincoln noted. "Is he okay?"

"He's not in the SHU. He's back in Gen Pop," the doctor replied.

But that didn't mean anything at all to Lincoln. "But is he okay, doc? Please."

"I can't share information about another inmate, Lincoln," she replied.

"He's not just another inmate; he's my brother!" Lincoln's voice rose, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. The doctor looked at him warily.

"Please, doc," he tried again. "I just want to know if he's all right."

The doctor took his right hand and examined it, bending his fingers gently. "Nothing looks broken," she said, moving to the other hand.

"It's not. I just tore open some skin. Did that scumbag really do what he claims to my brother?" His voice was low, but the intensity of his question was harsh. It surprised him, even.

The doctor's eyes met his own. He kept the eye contact, praying, wishing, hoping she would just answer him. Finally, she shook her head.

"No," she replied. "I mean, I don't know what he's claiming, but—"

"I'm sure you can imagine," Lincoln replied, his teeth clenching so hard they squeaked.

She sighed. "Yes, I can. And no, he didn't."

Lincoln felt his body droop slightly with relief. Thank God. Michael was all right. Lincoln nodded. "Thanks, doc."

The doctor began wrapping his hands in gauze. She didn't reply at all.


	30. Chapter 30

Sucre was still praying, still pacing, when he finally heard the words he'd been waiting for.

The tinny intercom came to life with a loud buzz. "Scofield for readmission to Gen Pop," a disinterested voice said, and then there was the familiar clang as the doors opened and shut.

Sucre froze. Surely his ears had deceived him? He crossed himself and jumped across his cell, hitting the bars with both hands. Clangs up and down the tier told him other cons were doing the same thing.

It was him! He bit his lip, refraining from calling out, _Papi!_ but the other cons had plenty to say.

"Hey fish, you ain't so pretty no more," the inmate across the tier called.

"Servin' fish for dinner tonight, huh boy?" another yelled. The rest of the taunts were lost in the general clamor, and Sucre was glad. He didn't want to hear that shit, and his cellie certainly didn't need any more of that, not today.

Papi didn't appear to notice any of them. He stared straight ahead. Sucre could see the bruises, even from the middle tier, that covered his face. Black eye, split lip, bruised cheeks, chin, and forehead…that had been a hell of a beating. Sucre swallowed. So if that part was true…he winced, and pulled away from the bars.

"Open on cell 40!" he heard after a few minutes, and he turned his head to look. Michael stood there, hands shoved into his pockets. The door slid open with a loud bang, and the C.O., Patterson, nodded his head towards the cell. Michael walked in. Sucre faced him, unsure of what to do.

He wanted to grab the man and ask him if he was okay, and that scared him. But he liked this fish; he felt like a cousin. And not a shitty cousin, like Hector, who'd been trying to get into Maricruz's pants since the first moment he'd seen her, but a good cousin, a better one than Manche, even.

So he swallowed again nervously as the door clanged shut, and looked at Michael. One eye was partially swollen shut. "Ese, that's a hell of a beating," he said awkwardly after a moment.

Scofield nodded. "Yep," he said. The silence stretched. Sucre was acutely aware of the fact that all the cons who could possibly see into their cell were looking, watching them.

"You okay, Papi?" he asked. "I'm glad to have you back."

"Glad to be back," Michael replied. Sucre stuck his hand out carefully, and was glad when Michael's hand met his, linked between their chests. If he could handle that, he must not be hurt that bad, right?

Michael pulled back and met Sucre's gaze with both eyes. "But we have a problem."

Sucre looked at him. "What is it, man? Can I help?" He felt desperately guilty that he hadn't noticed that Michael was missing earlier.

"It's my back," Michael said. "There's a problem with the blueprints."

Sucre shook his head. "What do you mean, there's a problem with the blueprints?" Surely he hadn't copied them wrong or something, not Papi. This guy was like a machine as far as details went.

"I mean, I got stabbed—"

"T-Bag stabbed you?" Sucre started swearing avidly in Spanish, clenching his hands into fists. His stomach was roiling with fury. How dare he?

Suddenly, Michael reached out and clasped his hand on Sucre's shoulder, and Sucre looked at him, still feeling that fury running through his veins.

"Let me finish, man," he said quietly. Something about that quietness made Sucre stop dead. He stared at Michael.

"What, Papi?" he asked. "What did that pendejo do to you?" He braced himself; if the fish could take it, he could certainly hear it.

Michael laughed, but there was no humor there at all. He sat down on his bunk. Sucre couldn't help but notice that it didn't seem to cause him pain. Maybe the rumors had twisted? Maybe it really hadn't been as bad as everyone had said? Sucre had never been raped, but he knew some things, just from watching the kids and the men who had. Like the fact that it would hurt like hell to sit down. And Michael hadn't even winced.

"Which asshole would you be talking about, Sucre?" Michael asked, looking up at him. "Are you talking about T-Bag? Or are you talking about the one who stabbed me in the back with a nail?"

Sucre jerked backwards. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa Papi. Explain. Please, man. You know I ain't so smart." His head was reeling with the information Michael was passing on.

"Wasn't T-Bag who stuck a nail in my shoulder." Michael looked at Sucre. "Check for bulls," he said.

Sucre jumped up and pushed his mirror out. He didn't see a bull anywhere. "You're clear," he replied, walking back over to his cellie.

"That was Bellick. He shoved me against a wall, and the nail tore into my back. Hurt like a motherfucker; haven't felt pain like that for a long time." Michael managed to smirk, even with his bruised face and split lip. "I didn't want to see Sara, and he decided to make a point."

Sucre felt his mouth drop open. Another string of Spanish curse words flowed from his mouth.

"Yeah," Michael said. He laughed again, another humorless chuckle, and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his hands. Sucre stared down at his cellie, feeling his stomach twist.

"Well, did you tell the doctor, man?" Sucre managed to ask after a moment. Michael shook his head again, and another weak excuse for laughter left his lips.

"Tell her that a guard shoved me against a wall and put a nail through my shoulder? I'm not dumb enough to think Bellick would lose his job over it; no one's gonna believe a con over a bull. And if Bellick wants to, he could make our plan to get out impossible. All it would take would be a cell transfer. He sticks me in with one of those Aryan men, with one of the cons who've wanted a piece of me since I walked in, or God forbid, with T-Bag—and you know he's a sick enough bastard he'd do it—then this will all be for nothing. My brother will die, and I'll likely spend the next five years getting raped. For nothing. So, no."

"But—"Sucre protested.

"Haven't you learned that life's not fair yet, Sucre? That's just how it goes. It's just one more thing." Michael's voice was so matter-of-fact that it hurt Sucre to hear it. "The plan's the most important thing. Justice for my brother. Everything else can just wait."

Sucre swallowed again. "What about a little justice for you, Papi?" he pleaded.

Michael turned his head towards Sucre and managed a small smile. "Justice for my brother is enough justice for me," he replied. "As long as he's alive and okay, whatever happens to me…nothing I can't handle."

Sucre sighed and pulled himself up onto the top bunk. That man…he was something else. It wasn't just blood that ran through his veins…it was pure loyalty, pure love for his brother, pure passion. "You're something else, Papi," he said.

He heard the man snort,. "Hardly," he said. "I'm just doing what's right."

"Ain't nobody just done what's right because it was right since the days of cowboys, man. You're…you're fucking loco, Papi."

"Maybe," Michael replied. There was no noise, but Sucre could tell the man had shrugged anyway.

"No, no maybe about it. You are one loco white boy. But I get it; hell I admire it. That's your family, man."

"Thanks, Sucre," Michael replied after a long moment.

The men lay there in silence. After awhile, Sucre heard Michael's breathing change, to a slow, deep rhythm that meant he was sleeping.

"No wonder he uses words like passion."


	31. Chapter 31

"Chow time, cons!"

The words hit Michael's sleeping ears, and instantly brought him to full alertness. Shit. Already time to eat? He'd been in the infirmary during lunch, and now it was dinner. Which he was not interested in. He didn't have the energy to deal with all the shit he knew was coming his way.

"You ready, Papi?" Sucre asked him. Michael heard concern in his voice, and it bothered him.

"They're gonna give me a lot of shit," Michael said, not looking at Sucre. He sat up, leaning forward over his knees.

"Si," Sucre replied. He didn't bother with any platitudes, and that too bothered Michael. Sucre was big on platitudes; it came from being such a religious guy. Michael pulled down the sleeves of his Henley shirt, covering his tattoos, and the dark places that weren't ink.

"Okay." Michael ran his hand over his closely-shorn hair, wincing when his fingers brushed a tender spot where his head had smacked the ground. "Let's go."

The two men stepped out into the tier. Michael stepped out first. He knew better than to seem afraid, than to appear to be hiding behind Sucre. He walked tall, head up, focused forward, but let his L.L.I. flourish rather than suppressing it, noticing every little detail.

He could feel Sucre at his shoulder, so close he was nearly touching him. He could feel each movement of Sucre's head from the shift of the air molecules; he was watching his back. That made him smile slightly; Fernando Sucre was a good man, thief or no.

Around him, the other cons were craning their necks, watching him. He heard their whispers and low talk, most of it too low for his ears to catch. He saw one man's hand move in a derogatory gesture, and his cellmate laughed. The man in front of him was slowing down, saying, "Hey fish, heard you're a pretty good piece of ass," and then he was going to turn, going to give him a shove against the wall, going to go for him. Michael could see it in his hands, see it in the way his knuckles twitched, in the way his head twisted, his body following as he spoke.

So Michael responded. He dropped down to one knee, curling his head to the side so he could still see the man who had lunged for where he'd been. Except he wasn't there anymore. He crashed into the wall, cursing loudly. Michael rose to his feet again, as Sucre jerked towards the attack that wasn't.

Michael reached out and stopped Sucre with a hand to his shoulder. "Don't," he said, his voice quiet. The man whirled around again, ready for another go. He looked pissed, and slightly confused.

"Break it up, cons!" A C.O. came storming down the tier, swinging his nightstick. Cons scattered right and left until the bull was standing directly between Michael and this unknown inmate who'd wanted a piece of him. "What the hell's going on down here?"

Michael spoke first. "Nothing, boss," he said.

The bull's eyes shot to the other con, who had pushed away from the wall. He was breathing hard, glaring at Michael like he'd initiated the incident. Finally, he just shook his head. "Nothin' at all, boss," he said. "Tripped."

The C.O. looked suspicious. "Keep it moving, then," he said. "Don't have time for this shit."

The man gave Michael one last confused look, then turned and started walking. Michael followed after, still observing everyone around him. He could hear whispering. He assumed the rumors were spreading some more, and possibly, hopefully, changing. After all, if he'd really been had by T-Bag, would he be able to move like that? He doubted it; hell, he doubted T-bag would have left him conscious. The thought made his stomach twist, and he pushed it away, instead letting the millions of details from around him take its place.

The smell of the food from the chow hall turned his stomach. He took his tray, as usual, and turned towards the table he usually sat at. It was a lot like school, Michael mused. Everyone had their table, their routine.

Except now, there were a pair of men sitting at his table. They didn't have trays; they were just sitting there, staring at him. He didn't break his stride, feeling Sucre still behind him, holding his own tray. He heard the man mumble something under his breath in Spanish, but Michael didn't catch exactly what he said. He hoped it was a prayer.

Both of the men stood up; Michael recognized the one on the left as Trokey, the guy who lived one cell down from T-Bag. The other man, the massive one with stringy hair and a beer gut, was completely unknown to him. Trokey reached for his arm, and Michael stepped away.

"What do you want?" he asked roughly, gripping his tray with both hands.

Trokey grinned. "Me? I don't want nothin'. But my associate here…he's been so sick of listening to T-Bag bitch about how much he wants a piece of the pretty little fish here, when he didn't get none. So…" he turned to his enormous 'associate,' who smirked at Michael.

"So, I'm here to get my piece, fishy," the other man said. "Now that you're not 'off-limits' anymore."

Sucre stepped up behind Michael, who could hear him breathing. His cellie was furious, and trying to suppress it. Well, that was better than Michael was doing right now; he just felt sick. So T-Bag had declared him 'off-limits' until he got what he wanted from him? Well. He could use that.

"Sorry, boys," Michael replied, his voice dry. "Still off-limits." He pushed between the men and dropped his tray on the table. He could feel the eyes around them, watching, waiting for what was coming.

He could sense the associate's hand reaching for his arm and pulled it out of the way, turning to face the man dead on. Trokey was still behind him, but he knew Sucre would watch and make sure he didn't try to attack him from the back. He hated that he had to look up to see the man's eyes, but it couldn't be helped. "Didn't you hear me?" Michael asked, drawing himself up to his full height. He let his eyes go steely, made his voice as hard as he could. "Off. Limits."

They stared at each other for a long, long moment. Finally, the other man jerked away. "C'mon, Trokey," he said. They stalked off, headed back towards their table, half-way across the chow hall. The eyes of the rest of the men divided, some still watching Michael and Sucre, the others on the retreating pair.

Michael turned to face his food as Sucre placed his tray on the table across from him. "Are you fucking loco, fish?" he hissed under his breath.

Michael shook his head slightly, purposely sitting down as heavily as he could. "Not at all," he replied. "Now he knows I'm off-limits, still. And if he knows, so does everyone else. It's not a bad holding strategy."

Sucre leaned closer. "How long you think it'll be 'til he realizes you're just bull-shitting?"

Michael looked at Sucre. "I'm not. The way it works is that T-Bag's tried to put a claim on me, right? He gets," and Michael forced himself not to wince, "first dibs on my body. That's how it works, right?"

Sucre nodded slowly, not getting it.

"So until he gets what he wants from me, no one else is gonna touch me. Right?" Michael continued, still staring into Sucre's eyes.

"Yeah, but Papi, everyone heard that he got—" Sucre cut himself off. "Shit. It's not true. He didn't…" His eyes met Michael's, and Michael shook his head.

"No, he didn't," Michael replied. "And it's going to stay that way."


	32. Chapter 32

"You're a liar," Lincoln said, almost conversationally, into the drain. He ran his fingertips over his gauze-covered knuckles.

He heard a chuckle come back up. "You ever had any doubt, Sink? I am a tale-teller of the most refined and horrifying kind. Not a person on this planet can weave a story quite like me." That lilting southern accent was filled with a twisted pride. "You believed me, did…you…not?"

Lincoln gritted his teeth. He had believed him. Every word he'd spoken, about what he'd done to Michael. It had made him sick to his stomach, to think of his brother being hurt, being used, like T-Bag described, in detail so malicious that Lincoln couldn't see how it couldn't be true.

"But I didn't lie about everything, Sink," T-Bag continued.

Lincoln bit at his lower lip. His brain wasn't sure what to do with those words. Did he actually believe T-Bag when he said that? "I don't believe you," he replied finally, exhaling a little.

"Yes, you do," T-Bag said. His voice was so confident it made Lincoln freeze. "You believe me because for a change, I'm telling the truth." His voice danced on those last few words, teasingly. Lincoln found his fists curling again.

"About what?" Lincoln asked.

He heard another light, low chuckle. "Oh, well now Sink. You know what was just my fantasies, now that you've talked with the doc, do you not?"

Lincoln's gut clenched again. All the things T-Bag had taunted him with earlier rolled through his mind again. He took a deep breath.

"I know you didn't—" Lincoln swallowed. He didn't even want to say it.

Another chuckle reverberated through the drain. "Didn't get my piece of ass?" T-Bag said. "Didn't get to watch his eyes well up with tears as he swallowed my—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Lincoln roared, cutting him off. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were biting into his skin, but he couldn't seem to uncurl them. His bile rose, burning his throat.

"Yes, you're right about that, Sink. That remains, unfortunately, one of my fondest fantasies." Lincoln heard him smack his lips together. "No, I didn't get a piece of him, after all."

Lincoln thought of the other vile images T-Bag had thrown out there. "I do know that you beat the shit out of him," Lincoln accused harshly, his younger brother's heavily bruised and battered face flashing across his brain. It was an easier image to take than the earlier ones T-Bag had forced on him.

"Indeed," T-Bag replied, sounding delighted with himself. "Indeed, that pretty face of his is gonna have to heal up, isn't it?"

Lincoln heard a growl emerge from deep in his throat. He wanted to punch the wall again, but couldn't; the doctor had said if he engaged in any more "self-injurious behavior" she was going to have him restrained in the infirmary. It had made him laugh at the time, that he couldn't punch a wall but the state could kill him, but now he was just furious.

"My personal favorite piece of truth," T-Bag continued, "happens to be the truth that your pretty little brother told me from his own, perfect pink lips. Do you want to know what that is, Sink?"

Lincoln felt his stomach lurch again. Did he want to hear this? He didn't know. T-Bag could be lying to him again; he wouldn't know until he could talk to Michael. And until then, it would just eat at him. So did he really want to hear this?

"Sure you do," T-Bag said, his voice slithering through the pipe. "He'll try to deny it, you know. When you ask him if I told you the truth, he'll tell you I didn't. That I'm lying. But I am not lying. These words came from his own pretty mouth."

Lincoln was caught. He didn't want to hear this, and yet he needed to. What had Michael said to T-Bag that had him so thrilled? It couldn't possibly be anything good.

"What words?" Lincoln asked quietly.

That laugh again. "You do want to hear it, then? All right." Lincoln heard him smack his lips again. When he spoke again, he'd broken into his story-telling lilt.

"Your boy was laying there, underneath me, still…he didn't fight me when I kissed him, you know that, Sink? He just laid there and let me take his mouth, razor blade and all. And his mouth tasted soooo good…ain't never tasted nothin' that good, with his blood and his breathe, so sweet and good…as good as I thought it would be."

Lincoln couldn't breathe. His stomach was aching, and his hands were pressed into his own thighs with all his strength, and he couldn't breathe. He would kill this man. Slowly, and painfully. He'd do it. He jumped up and started pacing back and forth, unable to sit still because of overwhelming anger.

T-Bag smacked his lips again. "So I told him. I told him that he tasted just as good as I'd expected. Sweeter than a virgin's kiss, I believe, was my exact statement. And then…Pretty laughed at me. 'I'm hardly a virgin,' he says."

Lincoln thought of Michael's short list of girlfriends. Most of whom had given up on him when, although he could remember every detail of everything else, he'd forgotten an important date…a birthday, an anniversary, a reunion. Or he'd gotten caught up in work…for two straight days. Or something. There was always something, it seemed. He aimed a hard kick at the wall with the bottom of his foot.

"What's your point, T-Bag?" Lincoln managed to snarl through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't expect him to be a virgin at 27."

"Ahh. And that is where things get interesting, Sink. 'Cause I said he was close enough. See, I was looking forward to popping his cherry, so to speak, and then he broke it to me." The pause was long. Lincoln wanted to murder this bastard, right now. He kicked the wall again, fury rising in his chest. "His cherry got popped a long, long time ago."

Lincoln's blood ran cold. He dropped to the floor again. "You are going to die," he hissed at T-Bag through the vent. "What do you think you're implying? I will kill you. If they're gonna try to fry me, I might as well kill someone." He pushed himself back onto his feet, pacing again. His fingertips tore at his own arms, desperate to strangle something.

"I'm not implyin' shit," T-Bag said. "He asked me how I knew. He asked me, Sink. How'd I know he'd been had before? Not quite in those words, of course, but close enough."

Lincoln flew at the wall separating him and T-Bag again with a wordless shout, but restrained from punching it. He hit it hard with his entire body, bouncing backwards and sliding to the ground.

What did that mean? T-Bag had to be lying. There wasn't any other way, was there? He knew Michael wasn't gay, not with the way he felt about that doctor showing in his eyes whenever he talked about her. He knew his brother. So T-Bag had to be lying. Right? He had to. He was just trying to fuck with Lincoln's mind.

"You know I'm not lyin', Sink," T-Bag said into the drain. It almost felt like he was whispering it in his ear. "Your boy's been had before. And not by me. Just ask him. And watch those pretty eyes of his when he tries to lie to you. They tell the truth, always."


	33. Chapter 33

Michael's stomach growled loudly. He pressed his fists into it, trying to quiet it down. His body was shivering, and he was soaked to the skin, his dripping wet backpack clenched between his knees. It had been raining for hours, and he'd been sitting there for hours, his back against the side of the building, his frozen fingers wrapped around a discarded Starbucks cup he'd found next to a trash can. A dime and a penny kept each other company at the bottom of the cup.

He brought his hands to his mouth and blew on them, trying to get feeling to come back into his fingers. They were numb from cold. The cup was soggy, and all the passers-by were ducked down to keep their faces out of the rain, not looking at the teenage boy huddled on the pavement, begging for spare change.

He turned the cup over and shook it until the meager change fell into his shaking hand. There was no point in begging anyway; he never got more than a buck, maybe two on a really good day. He pushed it into his pocket and rose to his feet, pulling his battered knapsack onto his shoulders and the hood of his sweatshirt tighter over his head. Might as well walk, at least try to keep warm.

The streets looked shabbier and shabbier the farther he walked, but he didn't know where to go. Lincoln was in jail again, and he wasn't going to go into another foster home. They'd take him away from Linc if they knew, and that…that would kill him. He'd figured he was better off on his own, until Linc got out of lockup. Until then…

Well, his sentence was only twenty-three more days. Surely Michael wouldn't starve to death in twenty-three days?

It would have been easier if the landlord hadn't evicted them. They'd been two months behind on their rent when Lincoln had gone in; there was no way for Michael to pay the next bill. Lisa had most of their stuff, but not Michael. She'd said she was going to call DCFS and have them find a placement for him.

Michael had ran. It had been a very, very long week.

His stomach growled again. It hurt so much he felt like he was going to throw up. He desperately needed some food, anything. He was only fifteen, and still growing.

Down the block, he saw a bus stop, enclosed from the rain. Maybe he could at least wring out his sweatshirt there? It was worth a shot.

He walked into the shelter of the bus stop and tucked his backpack between himself and the wall of the shelter before peeling his soaked sweatshirt over his head. His damp tee shirt stuck to it, pulling up and revealing his stomach. He yanked it down and started to wring out the sweater. Goosebumps popped up all over his skin, and he shivered harder.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and his head jerked up. A man walked into the shelter, carrying a black umbrella. He closed it, shaking off the rain. Michael watched him with wary eyes, still wringing the water from his sweatshirt.

The man sat down on the bench next to him. Around thirty, married, a business man, Michael noted, with the help of his LLI. What was a guy like that doing in this part of town? Ah, yes. Of course.

"You look cold," the man commented. Michael studied him for a moment.

"Yes," he replied finally.

"Want a chance to dry out, maybe get a hot shower and some food?" the man asked.

Michael's stomach growled again at the mention of food. But Michael wasn't stupid. He knew what this guy was asking, from the way he'd studied Michael's tee shirt clinging to his body, the way he'd sat close enough to almost, but not quite touch him, that glint in his eye. He'd seen that glint before. It had been in the eyes of that first foster father…the one at Pershing Avenue…and in so many eyes after that. He knew that glint.

But this was his choice, this time. This guy wasn't gonna hold him down, take what he wanted, and leave him. He was offering something in return. A shower. Food. Maybe even some money.

"All that and fifty bucks," Michael replied. Miraculously, his voice didn't tremble. It sounded, in fact, like he knew what he was doing. He supposed in a way, he did.

The man looked him over again, more openly this time. "Okay. You're a pretty kid." He stood up. "Come on."

Michael stood too, still holding his sweatshirt in his hand. He pulled his backpack onto his shoulder and followed the man.

They walked two blocks in silence, going into a hotel. The man walked up to the desk and spoke with the bored-looking clerk behind it. A few moments later, after an exchange of cash, he returned to Michael, holding a key. "C'mon," he said again.

Michael was shaking, and not just from cold. Was he really going to do this? But what was the difference? Not like he hadn't been forced to do this so many times…at least this time, it was his choice, and he'd get something out of it too. Mutually beneficial, and all that shit. The man put his hand on the small of Michael's back and gave him a light push. Michael started to walk.

The room was dirty and smelled like sex. Michael looked at the man. "Well?" he said. It was a question of what the guy wanted him to do, but the guy just nodded and pulled out his wallet, handing Michael a fifty dollar bill.

Michael's hand closed around the money, and he quickly shoved it deep inside his backpack. When he stood up, the man was right behind him, breathing on the back of his neck, right there, in his space. He swallowed. He was committed, now.

"Take off your shirt," the man said, pulling off his own jacket. "Let me see you, boy."

And Michael pulled the hem of his tee shirt over his head, refusing to shudder. He'd sold himself, and now he had to deliver.

He let the hot water rinse the soap off his face before turning off the shower. He toweled off quickly and dressed. His clothes were still damp, even though he'd spread them over the ancient radiator before the man had pushed him onto the bed.

He didn't feel clean. He'd sold himself. If his brother knew…Michael shook his head. His brother would never know. He didn't know about Pershing Avenue…or about the others…and he didn't need to know about this either. It would just be another secret he'd keep for his brother's sake.

He stepped out of the bathroom, backpack on his back. The man was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed again, looking at the fuzzy television screen. When the bathroom door shut, he looked up.

"Come here; give me one more kiss, and then you can leave."

Michael walked over to him and allowed the man to invade his mouth again. He wondered if he'd ever really feel clean again, after this. Finally, the man pulled away.

"Alright, boy. Our deal's done," he said, patting Michael's ass. "You sure are pretty, though. Maybe I'll find you again."

Michael turned and walked out of the hotel room, his eyes welling up. Yes, he was pretty. It was a curse. But now, he had fifty dollars. He could get some food, maybe find a place to sleep that was indoors. Things would be okay. He stepped outside, into the rain, and let it mix with the tears that were flowing down his cheeks.

At least Linc would never know.


	34. Chapter 34

Sucre stared up at the ceiling above him, listening to Michael tossing and turning in his sleep. T-Bag hadn't gotten him, not really, Sucre reminded himself. That was good. He quickly recited another prayer of thanks for that, and crossed himself.

He heard Michael whimper, like a puppy or something, in his sleep. "Papi? You okay?" he asked, but there was no reply. The man was still asleep, then.

Sucre wished he had a watch. He'd woken up because of Michael's restless shifting, and had no clue what time it was. He heard footsteps out on the tier, and looked out to see who the bull was.

Stolte. Since when did he work the night shift, anyway? But he hated Sucre; no use catching his attention. Sucre laced his fingers together and put his hands behind his head.

He couldn't believe everything that had happened in just one day. Michael had assured him that the plan was still safe and that T-Bag wasn't going to sing on them, but Sucre didn't see how he could be so confident. Michael's answer of, "Have some faith," did little for him. There was faith, and then there was T-Bag, who was practically the devil himself. Not that faith wasn't good against the devil…he crossed himself again, just to make sure.

Sucre sighed. He was awake anyway, might as well shake hands with the President. He dropped down from his bunk with a sigh. It would be nice to take a piss alone again, when he finally got out of here. It wasn't real high on his list of priorities, but it would be nice.

He washed his hands and wiped them off on his sweatpants. Michael thrashed again in his bunk, his hand flopping off the edge. Sucre caught the glint of the cheap plastic watch he always wore. He could check the time, then.

Sucre crouched to read the watch. It read 3:32 AM. So he had a few hours left to sleep, assuming he could fall asleep with Michael making so much noise.

He put his hands on his bunk again, about to push himself back up, when Michael let out another cry. Sucre ducked his head and looked at him again. Maybe he should wake him up? It was probably better to interrupt that kind of dream, anyway, right?

Michael moaned again. Shit, with all the noise he was making, he was gonna wake up someone else besides just Sucre. He decided to wake him.

"Papi, wake up man," he whispered. Michael's body twisted again, so his back was facing Sucre. Where had he been stabbed? Sucre tried to remember. Left shoulder. So if he touched his right shoulder, he wouldn't hurt him, right? He reached out and lightly tapped Michael's right shoulder.

A muffled string of something that could have been words came from Michael's mouth, along with another slight whimper. "Wake up, Papi," he urged, tapping him again. Nothing.

Finally, he grabbed Michael's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Michael," he hissed.

Michael bolted upright, so fast that Sucre jerked backwards, hitting the wall behind him. "No!" he cried, his pale, watering eyes glaring past Sucre. "Don't touch me!" His voice was loud in the silence of the tier.

Sucre froze. "What, man? Papi, it's me. Sucre," he whispered, holding out his hands. The last thing they needed right now was a bull…although, generally the bulls didn't interfere when cellmates got 'friendly', but he didn't want anyone thinking he and Michael were doing that, either.

Those eyes blinked, and Sucre saw a tear run down Michael's face. He'd been crying in his sleep? Sucre didn't even know that was possible. He saw Michael swallow hard. "Sucre? Why did you wake me?" His voice sounded normal again, just his usual whisper.

"You were making an awful lot of noise," Sucre explained. "Talking in your sleep and stuff. I was scared you were gonna wake someone up besides me."

Michael's eyes locked on his. "I was talking in my sleep?" he asked in an urgent whisper. "What did I say?"

"Nothing," Sucre replied. His eyes were so big. He was freaked out. "What's wrong, man?"

"Did I say anything?" Michael repeated.

"Nada, man. Nothing I could understand as English…or Spanish, either," he added after a moment, knowing that Michael did know Spanish. "Just gibberish."

"Swear to me," Michael said.

"I swear, man. Just gibberish." Sucre wondered why it mattered so much. He saw Michael's shoulders relax after he swore, though. Well, whatever.

Michael ducked his head, and Sucre looked away, to let him wipe off his face. "You okay?" he whispered to him, still looking out into the darkened tier.

He heard Michael take a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm fine," he said back.

He turned back to face Michael again. "It's just a dream, Papi," he said awkwardly. He saw Michael smile sadly in the pale light.

"Just a dream," he repeated. "Yeah."

Sucre looked at his cellie again, but Michael was somewhere in his own world now. He pushed himself back onto his bunk and settled back, looking at the ceiling once again. Now he couldn't sleep, even though Michael was silent. What kind of dreams caused a grown man to cry in his sleep?

Sucre wasn't sure he really wanted to know.


	35. Chapter 35

"P.I.!" the bull called.

Michael and Sucre's cell opened, and they stepped out. "You sure about this, ese?" Sucre whispered to him as they started down the tier. "I mean, it was just yesterday—"

"I know that, Sucre. I need to talk to Lincoln," Michael said. He spared his cellie a look. The man finally nodded. "Okay, man. I get it," he replied, leaving Michael to his thoughts.

There was no way Lincoln hadn't heard who had attacked Michael. Absolutely no way. If nothing else, Sucre's big-mouthed cousin, Manche, would have said something to him. So how was he going to react when Michael told him that T-Bag was still coming with?

Poorly. Michael knew this to be true. Lincoln was predictable in many ways, especially when it came to his reaction to someone hurting Michael.

Well, the conversation had to be had sometime. Might as well get it over with sooner, rather than later.

He met up with Abruzzi in the hallway. "You all right, fish?" the man asked. "Everything still on track?" 

Michael nodded once. Abruzzi nodded back. "Good," he said, and took a few steps forward, so Michael was staring at his back.

It was good for life to be predictable.

They walked into the P.I. locker room. Michael scanned for Lincoln, but he wasn't there yet. Just him, Sucre, Abruzzi, Westmoreland, and C-Note. T-Bag wouldn't be there again. They'd probably leave him in the SHU for the next ninety days, at least. Maybe more.

They'd be gone by then. Michael had no intention of actually bringing T-Bag with them. But he had to convince everyone else, including his brother, that he would. Had to plan like he was going to bring T-Bag with. Had to get his brother genuinely angry enough to spout something at T-Bag about how he was going to kill him once they were over those walls, how he didn't understand why Michael would bring this man with them, all those things.

He'd fashioned the plan after Sucre had woken him the night before; no way he could go back to sleep after all those dreams. He hadn't dreamt of that for so long. He thought he'd never have to think about it again. That's what he'd told himself, he'd never think of it again, not once he got his degree, his job, his loft, his life. It was in the past, and he'd leave it there. A dirty little secret.

But in here, because of T-Bag and his words and his actions, the past and the present were colliding painfully. He couldn't help but remember. Couldn't help but dream.

Michael walked over to his locker, where his P.I. uniform was stored, and pulled off his over-shirt, folding it neatly and placing it inside his locker.

He felt it too late to do anything but cringe. Hands invading his space, gripping his biceps over the old bruises. An old, old fear.

A moment later, everything else registered. His brother's scent, the scar in the vee of his thumb and pointer finger against his skin, his voice. "Michael," his brother said.

Michael relaxed. "Lincoln," he replied, turning to face him.

His brother's eyes were locked on his as he grabbed his arms again. Michael held back a wince of pain as his brother gripped him in a hug. Finally, he held him out a little. "You're alright," he said, looking at him. One hand ghosted over Michael's head before landing on the back of his neck. "You're alright?"

Michael nodded. "I'm fine," he said. He was distinctly aware of the rest of the P.I. crew intently not-noticing the brothers' reunion.

The bulls had no such qualms. "Get your asses moving Burrows, Scofield. You're not here for a fucking tea party."

Michael could feel that Lincoln was reluctant to let go of him. He pulled away and grabbed his PI uniform. "Later," he said under his breath. He saw Lincoln nod once, and go to his own locker to get dressed.

Lincoln's reaction didn't make sense. He'd known Michael was alright; he'd seen him yesterday. So why had he grabbed him like he was afraid Michael had been close to death?

It made no sense at all.

The men all dressed and started walking out to the old C.O. break room. Michael stayed far ahead of the rest, leading the way, almost. How was this going to go?

Lincoln watched Michael ignore him. Maybe ignore wasn't precisely the correct word. But he was keeping his distance.

Well, Lincoln had some things he had to talk to Michael about. Like what T-Bag had said. All night, his brain had tried unsuccessfully to create explanations. But he needed to really know why Michael would say something like that. After all, Michael had a reason for everything he did, didn't he?

"Michael," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended. "Come here."

Michael was reminded sharply of his young life with his brother, after their mother died. He'd lied to Lincoln, about stealing some money from his wallet. Lincoln's voice had sounded just like that, same words, same tone, before he'd given Michael an unforgettable beating.

A ridiculous thing to remember, now. Not the same situation at all. Michael was no longer 12 years old, his brother no longer lost in a world of drugs and alcohol and rage, trying to deal with a miserable, broken kid brother and a needy toddler, a shitty job, and a girlfriend who didn't understand how lousy it was, to be twenty and have so much responsibility. But his voice was the same.

He slowed so Lincoln could catch up with him. "Yeah?" he asked, trying not to betray the fear he felt stirring in the pit of his stomach. Not fear of his brother; fear of this situation. Something was wrong. He could see it in Linc's eyes, in the way he watched Michael's every step, in the furrow between his brows, which was deeper than ever.

"I was talking to T-Bag last night," Lincoln said. Michael stopped dead, his eyes widening.

"What? How the hell did you—"

"Don't change the subject Michael," Lincoln said. His voice was harsh again, but he couldn't seem to change that. He grabbed Michael's arm again. Michael winced, and he let go. "Keep walking," he said, feeling guilty. His brother was covered in bruises, and he was manhandling him? Good job, Lincoln.

He could see Michael's tension, in the way he held his hands stock still, hiding them in the pockets of his P.I. uniform, and how a small muscle in his jaw was working. He didn't speak again until they were inside the break room.

"We'll watch for bulls first," Lincoln said. Sucre, C-Note, and Abruzzi all nodded without a word. Lincoln was glad that they understood his need to talk to Michael privately.

Lincoln shut the door between the break room and the outer door, and turned to Michael. "You need to explain this, Michael," he said, his voice almost a hiss.

Michael took a step backwards, until his back brushed against the door. He put his hands against it too, bracing himself. "What do I need to explain?" he asked, trying for nonchalance. His brother was obviously close to losing it…

"Why you would tell T-Bag," and here Lincoln paused and looked away from Michael's eyes. And suddenly, Michael knew, without a doubt, what Lincoln wanted him to explain. His stomach twisted agonizingly. He gritted his teeth.

"Why I would tell him what?" Michael asked, thinking hard. He had never thought T-Bag would tell his brother what he said. He should have known better. T-Bag loved to upset people, to tear out their insides and make them bleed. Literally, and figuratively. And any amount of observation would have shown him that the best way to do that to Lincoln would be to go through Michael. He cursed himself for giving the man such a powerful weapon.

"That you weren't a…fuck, Michael. Did you seriously tell him that he wouldn't be the first?" The words seemed to tear out of Lincoln's throat in a sickened whisper.

The look of pain on Lincoln's face told Michael so much. Michael felt his heart flutter from fear and pain.

"Yeah, I told him that," Michael said. It wouldn't do any good to deny it; he'd have to deflect it instead.

"Why the fuck—" Lincoln's voice was rising.

"Shh! It's not true, okay? Lincoln, he'd told me he wanted to be the first one to…" Michael looked away. He didn't have to fake the shame that made his face redden. "I thought if I said that, maybe he wouldn't—wouldn't want—"

Lincoln looked at his stuttering brother. He wanted to believe him, so much. T-Bag's words echoed in his brain.

" Watch those pretty eyes of his when he tries to lie to you. They tell the truth, always."

He stared into his brother's green blue eyes, desperately praying that he would see that he was telling the truth there.

"You're lying to me," Lincoln said. He sounded so certain, so angry, so sad. Michael flinched when his brother slapped the door beside his head hard with the palm of his hand. "Fucking hell, Michael, you're lying to me!"

Michael felt fear flash through his body. How did Lincoln know he was lying? "I'm not," he said, keeping his voice quiet. "Stop yelling, a badge is gonna come—"

"You are lying," Lincoln said. His voice was low again, his face only inches from Michael's own. "He was right; I can see it in your eyes."

Michael jerked like Lincoln had slapped him. Well, Lincoln certainly wanted to slap him, never mind he was already covered in bruises and had been beaten enough.

"What happened, Michael? Was it here? He told me he wasn't the first to go after you, and I didn't believe him, but I can see it in your eyes. It's true. So who was it? Tell me!" Lincoln had Michael's collar in his hand, and there was a wildness in his eyes that made Michael want to flee. His secret had been found out. This was his worst night mare. This wasn't really happening. Couldn't be happening.

Suddenly, his brother just…crumpled. He dropped gracelessly to his knees and hunched over himself. Lincoln let go of Michael's collar and dropped down next to him. "Michael? Michael?"

His brother didn't respond. His eyes were open, but completely unblinking. There was nothing there anymore. Lincoln's body went cold. 

"Michael? Michael, I'm sorry. Please!" Lincoln felt a desperate fear engulf him. He grabbed his brother, trying to undo this damage he'd caused. What had he done?

The door to the break room opened. Sucre popped his head out. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.

"Something's wrong with Michael," Lincoln replied desperately. "Cover the hole. Get a badge."

Sucre swore rapidly in Spanish and squeezed out of the room, running out towards the yard. Lincoln could hear Abruzzi, C-Note, and Westmoreland putting the break room back to right. He wrapped his arms around his unresponsive brother. "Come on, Michael. Please. I'm sorry," he begged.

He was still holding onto him when Patterson came in, moving at a jog, led by Sucre. The guard called into his radio for the infirmary, and then crouched down, trying to look at Michael.

"Let me see him," Patterson said.

"Don't touch him," Lincoln barked, still guarding his brother.

"Burrows, let me see him!" Patterson said.

"Don't fucking touch him!" Lincoln yelled. He glared at Patterson with everything he had. "Don't fucking touch him, or I'll kill you." He'd never meant any words so much in his life.

Patterson reached for his radio again, but Sucre said, "Boss, please. That's his brother, man. Don't."

Patterson hesitated. Lincoln looked down at Michael, who was staring at nothing at all, his body stiffly curled in a ball, looking so small and vulnerable and broken. Whoever had hurt his brother would die.

Lincoln pulled Michael closer, shielding him with his arms. He thought of Michael's childhood, when Michael was afraid of the monsters in his closet and couldn't sleep, and how he'd crawled into bed with Lincoln. Lincoln had held him, kept him safe in his arms, so he could sleep.

But obviously, Lincoln hadn't always been there. And a real monster had gotten to his brother, and hurt him. Done him irreparable damage. He'd kept him safe from the monsters in the closet that weren't real, and let the real monsters attack him.

He rocked his brother slightly, like he had when he was a little kid. "Michael, please," he whispered to his brother. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, man."

He just kept whispering that, ignoring Patterson, Sucre, Abruzzi, C-Note, and Westmoreland. His brother was all that mattered right now. And then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Lincoln? Lincoln, it's Sara. Lincoln, you can let go now." Her voice was quiet. Lincoln looked up, to where the doctor was standing, with a gurney and some of the medical personnel.

"Sara?" he asked.

"Can I check him over?" she asked. "I want to make sure his vitals are okay and—" 

"Yeah. Yeah." This woman cared about Michael. "Please." His throat was dry, and he swallowed hard.

"Okay. Let go of him, alright?" she said.

"Sure," he said. He very carefully released Michael from his grip. Immediately, a guard came rushing at him, but Sara threw up her hand.

"Don't!" she said. "Just leave him alone."

The guard stopped, looking confused. "But—"

"Don't," she repeated, sparing him a second for a glare. The guard stepped back.

Lincoln watched in a daze as she checked his pulse and his pupils, and the other medical people began getting ready to move him to the gurney. Sara turned to him.

"What happened, Lincoln?" she asked. He shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what happened. I…" His voice trailed off.

Sara touched his shoulder briefly. "Okay. I'm going to go take care of Michael, but you and I can talk again later, once he's stable, okay?" she said.

Lincoln nodded. Sara said something to a guard in a stern undertone. The man nodded, and approached Lincoln again. "Come on, Burrows," he said. "P.I.'s over for the day."

Lincoln watched them roll Michael away on the gurney, his eyes still staring blankly at the sky. Sara was leaning over the gurney, trying to get a response of some sort from him without any success. Lincoln slowly got to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Michael," he whispered again as the guard began to herd him towards the prison again. "I'm so fucking sorry."


	36. Chapter 36

"Michael? Michael, it's Sara. Can you hear me?"

Michael blinked. His eyes felt gritty, like they'd been open for a long time. "Sara?" he said. Something was holding his hands and legs down; he struggled, afraid. "Sara!"

"Oh thank god," he heard. "Michael, relax. You're okay, just relax."

"Where's Lincoln?" Michael asked frantically, feeling his heart thump rapidly in his chest.

"I'll get him. Just relax, Michael." He felt her hand touch his. She spoke to someone else. "Now that he's conscious, I think you can remove the belts. He won't fall off the gurney."

"But—" he heard an unfamiliar voice say.

"He'll be alright. Please. I'll be right back."

Michael heard the exam room door shut. A man was standing over him. "I'm going to release your hands and feet now," he said, and Michael felt the pressure around his legs diminish with a click. "We buckled you onto the gurney."

Michael tried to remember how he'd gotten here. He had nothing. All he remembered was Lincoln, and that wildness in his eyes, and his uncontrollable fear, and then—nothing at all.

Wait. Lincoln knew. T-Bag had told him Michael's secret. Michael tensed as the man unbuckled the last set of belts holding Michael to the gurney, sitting straight up as Sara came back into the room.

"Thanks Fred," she said. "You can leave now."

The other man left. Michael jumped to his feet.

"Michael, sit down," Sara said.

"No," Michael replied. "No. Please. I don't want to see Lincoln." He started tapping his fingers frantically against his legs, looking for a way to vent his nerves. He began to pace back and forth, two steps one direction, then a sharp turn and two steps in the other direction.

"Why not?" Sara asked. "He's very concerned about you. He wouldn't let anyone touch you before I got there."

Michael stopped pacing and looked at Sara, still tapping his fingers. "What?"

"When I got there, he was absolutely refusing to let anyone else try to help. He threatened to kill Patterson if he even touched you." Sara swallowed hard. "He meant it, too, according to Patterson."

Michael didn't understand. Lincoln had been furious at him because he knew what Michael had done, but then, when he freaked out, Lincoln hadn't let anyone else near him? Except Sara. Lincoln knew Michael had a reluctant trust in Sara. He'd only let someone Michael trusted take care of him. So Lincoln had known, basically, that his brother was just a piece of trash, and yet he'd still defended him?

Except he didn't know. He thought Michael had been attacked. Here, most likely. In Fox River. He didn't know that Michael had been ten the first time…or that he'd first sold himself at fifteen…or that by seventeen, that's how he was helping Lincoln pay the bills. He didn't know all that stuff. And if he knew that, his thoughts would change.

The exam room door opened, and Lincoln was led in by a guard. Michael froze, staring. His brother's eyes were locked on him, but Michael couldn't read them. He could always read Lincoln's eyes; why couldn't he read them now?

The man un-cuffed his hands, and Lincoln lunged at Michael, grabbing him and wrapping his arms around him. Michael grunted with surprise.

"Michael, you scared the hell out of me," Lincoln whispered into his ear. "I'm so sorry."

Michael didn't move. His brother had his arms pinned to his sides anyway. Distantly, Michael heard the exam room door shut again, and he knew that Sara and the guard had left him and Linc alone to talk. He wasn't sure he was glad of that.

Finally, Lincoln let go of him. "Michael, I'm so sorry, man. I didn't know…I would have done something if I'd have known."

Michael needed more information about what Lincoln was talking about. "What would you have done, Lincoln?" he asked.

"Bribed a guard, or…or something. I don't know. You should have told me, Michael." Lincoln grabbed Michael's arms again and gave him the slightest of shakes, an echo of the ones he had when Michael was a kid. In another situation, it might have made him laugh.

He did think this was a recent thing. Well, that was good then. Michael could work with that. "It doesn't matter," Michael said.

"Who was it, Michael? Tell me." Lincoln's hands tightened on his arms, and they hurt. Michael winced.

"Why? So you can kill someone, and actually belong here?" Michael asked, pulling away. "No."

"Michael!" Lincoln let go of him and put his palm to his forehead. "Michael, please."

"He's dead already," Michael replied. That was partially true; he knew his foster father was dead. He'd seen him lying on the floor, in a puddle of his own blood, as that unknown man had shooed him away. And as far as he knew, the rest of those men could be dead too.

"Was it that C.O. that T-Bag killed? I protected that bastard!" Lincoln's rage was a tangible entity. "That fucker—"

"No," Michael said. "It wasn't. Please, Linc. Let it go."

"Michael—" 

"Lincoln, please. Just let it go." Michael took a breath, and reluctantly let out a little bit of truth. "It hurts less that way."

"Michael," Lincoln said, but he grabbed his brother again and hugged him. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Michael said. His brother's arms tightened around him, and Michael didn't resist. Just for a moment, he let himself pretend that they were young again, that Lincoln was protecting him, chasing away the monsters so he could be safe. Just for a moment. Tears came to his eyes, and he closed them, refusing to let them fall. "I'm sorry too."


	37. Chapter 37

Warning to the MiSa haters out there: there's some MiSa here. But it's brief. You've been warned.

"I'm not crazy, Sara. I don't need to be in the whack shack."

"It's not the whack shack, Michael—"

"Don't talk politically correct bullshit with me. I'm not crazy. A little bit of disassociation does not make me crazy." Michael stared at her intensely. "I want to go back to Gen Pop."

"Well then, you need to tell me what prompted it, Michael," Sara replied. "If you don't, I'll—"

"You're gonna put me in time out?" Michael's voice didn't sound the slightest bit teasing. "I'm already in prison."

"I'll assume that psychiatric treatment is likely necessary," she countered. "Because if you don't know why it happened, if it just occurred from nowhere, that is a problem, Michael. If that happens again, in another situation? In a situation where you were more vulnerable? You could be really hurt. In Gen Pop, your brother isn't going to be there to make sure no one harms you."

Sara could see Michael fighting himself. His jaw was moving slightly, his shoulders deliberately rising and falling with each breath. She felt guilty, but she needed to know. She did not want to have to patch Michael Scofield up again for so much as a scratch, much less another attempt at assault or something else equally brutal.

"I know why I did it, Sara," Michael said quietly. He looked at her with those intense green-blue eyes, and she couldn't look away.

"Why?" she asked.

Michael shook his head. "Does it really matter?" he asked. "If I know why, and I can avoid it, then why does it matter?"

"Because," Sara said. Because I care. "Michael, don't you understand that I'm trying to help you?"

Michael sighed. "Sara, please," he said.

"No. Michael…" She reached out and gently touched his uninjured shoulder. "Please. Trust me."

Their eyes met again for a second, and again, Sara was surprised by the intensity of his eyes. And then, suddenly, he was leaning forward, and his lips brushed hers, gently, and then more insistently. She breathed in, smelling him, tasting his breath, surprised by the jolt that hit her so hard her knees went weak. Her hand closed on his shoulder, keeping her upright.

And then, she remembered. He was an her patient. An inmate. She pulled away slightly, at the very same moment that he did.

"Ah," she whispered, feeling herself blush. "Michael. We can't."

She saw him swallow. "That wasn't planned either," he whispered back. She saw raw honesty in his eyes. "But I did want you to know."

"Know what?" she whispered back.

"Know that I trust you," he replied. "I'll tell you one day, Sara. But until that day comes…you'll have to trust me." He reached out and gently touched her face. "Please, Sara."

She licked her lips. "Michael—"

"Sara, I will explain it all one day. Just give me a chance. I promise you." His eyes were all truth. "Remember this. Please."

She looked at him. His eyes were begging with her.

"I'll remember," she said.

"Promise me," he said. "Please."

"I promise," she said again. She looked at him. "Tonight, I'm going to have you stay in the infirmary, Michael. We'll talk again tomorrow, okay?"

Michael nodded. Something flickered in his eyes, but she couldn't read it. She took a step back, and Michael reached out and grabbed her hand. She stopped.

"Before you go, can I talk to Lincoln again?" he asked.

She hesitated. It was late. They'd already done last count, and everyone was likely sleeping, or trying.

"Please, Sara?" he said. He looked down, and she was reminded of how vulnerable he'd looked before. "I need my brother." She saw Michael's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "They execute him in two days. I'll never…" His voice trailed off, but Sara heard everything left unsaid. He'd never see him again. Never hold him, never hear his voice. He would be gone, and Michael would be alone in here, for the next four years and eleven months. And then he'd be alone out there, forever. She felt her heart break for this man.

"He wasn't feeling well earlier, was he?" she asked. "I think I'll have the guards bring him up and settle him in here."

The relief on Michael's face was palpable. "Thank you," he whispered.

Sara squeezed his hand. "Tomorrow, we'll talk."

Michael smiled at her, slightly sadly. "If you insist, doctor," he said, and his voice had a hint of teasing in it now.

"I insist."

She left the office, locking Michael inside. Then she went to the receptionist's desk.

"Lewis? Bring Burrows up to the infirmary, please. Yes, now. Yes. He'll be here all night. Thank you."


	38. Chapter 38

It had taken forever for the guards to leave after getting Lincoln set up in the infirmary. It had taken even longer for Sara to leave them. But finally, she said, "Goodnight," and the exam door slammed. The silence after that was so long; Sucre thought he was going to explode.

Finally, he heard Michael say, "We're clear."

Suddenly, he saw Michael's face through the small disintegrated places in the pipe. "Break it clear and get up here," Michael told him. "Be quiet."

Sucre tore at the pipe with his bare hands as Michael removed the grate from the drain. "Okay, man," Sucre said. "I'm coming."

He carefully climbed up through the drain. Michael nodded at him. "You might have to hop back down there if a guard comes," he warned. "So don't put the grate back on. Did you leave that sock sticking out, so it looked like your foot was in the bed?"

"Por supuesto." Of course.

"Good," Michael replied.

Sucre looked at Lincoln, who was working at the bolts holding the bars over the windows. "That's going to take forever, ese," he said.

Lincoln glared at him. "Better help me then," he said.

Sucre's eyes shot up to heaven, and he crossed himself. "We could use some help now," he said, a little reminder to the good Lord.

"God helps those who help themselves," Michael replied. "Let's get going."

Finally, the last bolt came free. Michael instinctively clapped his hand over Sucre's mouth, and just in time, because the man let out a whoop.

"Shh. Come on," he said. "We have to get across that wire, now. Quickly. Lincoln, you first." He grabbed a sheet off the gurney. "This can go over the fence so we don't get cut."

Lincoln looked at Michael with something akin to awe. "You're amazing, bro," he said.

"Go," Michael said. "We can talk later."

Lincoln threw the sheet over his shoulder and started out the window.

"What about the others, ese?" Sucre asked/ Michael shook his head.

"This is the best and easiest chance we have. The more people with us, the more likely we are to fuck it up. Westmoreland was never planning on coming with; he just wanted revenge for his cat. C-Note's gonna be pissed, but he only worked P.I. for one day, he can plead ignorance, tell them we stuck him to watch the door and he didn't get anywhere near the hole. Abruzzi will want to kill me, but he's stuck in here for the rest of his life anyway, adding ten years to his sentence isn't going to matter. And T-Bag…he was never coming with. Not if I could help it."

Michael looked out the window. "Go, Sucre," he said, watching Lincoln spread the sheet over the top of the fence. "Now."

Sucre nodded, crossed himself again, and headed out the window. Michael had one more thing to do.

He walked over to the desk and grabbed a piece of paper that was sitting there, and a pen.

Dear Sara, he wrote.

I'm so sorry. I never planned on involving you like this. It had to be done; Lincoln is innocent, and I couldn't watch him die for something he didn't do. Remember, you promised to give me a chance to explain, and one day, I will.

Michael.

He read over the note, and then blew out a breathe and added one word.

Love, Michael.

Quickly, with a skill born from lots of practice, he folded it into a paper crane and placed the crane on the center of Sara's desk. He knew she would likely not be the first, or the only one to read it, but he wanted, no, needed, to get that message to her anyway. The rest could come later.

Now all he could do was pray. Pray that she'd find it. Pray that she'd trust him. Pray that she'd forgive him.

He walked deliberately over to the window, grabbed the line, and swung out into the night, starting across, hand over hand.

Lincoln watched with Sucre from the line of trees as Michael slid down the outside of the wall with the aid of the sheet. He watched, amazed, as Michael ran across the road and into the trees.

"We're free," Sucre whispered.

"Come on," Michael said, still running. "We don't have long before someone notices we're gone. If we're lucky, they won't notice until morning. If we aren't lucky, someone's noticed already. Either way, we have to get as far away as possible before then."

Lincoln started running after his brother and Sucre. He couldn't believe that he was outside, in the fresh air, in the woods, running, free again. He never thought he'd see that again.

"Do you have a plan, Papi?" Sucre asked.

"Michael doesn't piss without a plan," Lincoln said snidely, sparing the extra air. "Of course he has a plan."

Michael turned his head slightly, still running. "The car's about half a mile ahead. Keep moving."

Lincoln broke into a grin as Sucre said, "That's my boy, Papi!"

And the three men kept running into the dark, running for freedom.


	39. Chapter 39

When Sara woke up, she had a feeling. She needed to go into work early.

She looked at the clock. 5 am. Usually, she didn't go in until seven or so, but the feeling didn't go away. If anything, it got stronger. She had to go now.

She thought of Michael and Lincoln, in the infirmary all night. Maybe she needed to check on one of them? Maybe her gut was telling her something was wrong. She got out of bed and turned off her alarm clock, an hour before it was set to go off. It wouldn't hurt anything to go in early. Just to check. Just to be sure everything was alright.

She dressed quickly, pulling her hair off her face. She thought about yesterday. About how Michael had kissed her. She'd dreamt about that kiss.

It had been a long time since she'd dated anyone. Not on purpose; she was just married to her work. She hadn't meant to have feelings for Michael…but she had to admit, that's what these weird stirrings in her stomach when she thought of that kiss, of that honesty in his eyes, were. Feelings.

She'd never seen eyes like his before. She always knew when he was lying to her, when he was shielding the truth, when he was only telling half of what had happened, because his eyes couldn't hide anything. And last night, she would have sworn that she'd seen love in his eyes, after that kiss. And a little bit of sadness, which she hadn't understood.

She grabbed her purse and her keys. It was still dark outside as she locked her apartment door behind her, and she again wondered if she was being foolish, going into work nearly two hours early. But her gut told her go, and so she kept walking.

After all, guards didn't walk through the infirmary at night. Lewis had just dropped Lincoln off before punching out for the night; it was possible they'd been there all night without anyone looking in on them once. What if Michael had had a problem? What if he'd had a hypoglycemic episode? Lincoln wouldn't even be able to help him; there was nothing edible in her office.

She started her car. She was being silly. There was a phone bolted to the wall in her office; if there really had been an emergency, Lincoln could have gotten ahold of someone. They would be fine, and she would likely feel stupid for showing up at five in the morning and waking them up.

The drive didn't take very long at all; there was no traffic on the road yet. She parked in the parking lot and walked up to the staff entrance, where the usual guard checked her in. "You're here early, Dr. Tancredi," he said, opening the door. "It's not quite 6 AM yet!"

"Yeah. I woke up early today and couldn't get back to sleep," she said. "I thought I could get an early start. There's never enough time in the day, after all."

"Ain't that the truth," the guard said. "Have a good day, Doctor."

"You too," she replied, walking into the hallways that led to the infirmary.

The first thing she noticed when she walked in was that the exam screen was up, in front of the small window to the exam room. That was odd. Why would they have moved that?

She dug her keys out of her pocket and walked to the door. It took her a moment to unlock it, and push the screen out of the way without knocking it over. She didn't want to wake the brothers up if they were sleeping after all.

When she looked up past the screen, her heart skipped a beat.

There was no one there. The bars were off the window. The grate of the drain had been removed. The window was wide open. Lincoln and Michael were gone.

She scanned the room, her eyes wide with shock. They'd escaped. Michael and Lincoln had escaped. And somehow, no one had noticed. How the hell…?

Her eyes landed on her desk. A paper crane sat in the center of it. Sara knew that hadn't been there the night before. She thought of the paper rose Michael had left her on her birthday. It was from him, she knew.

In a daze, Sara walked over to the crane. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket without even looking at it. Later, she could look. Now, she had a job to do.

Her hands shaking, she picked up her phone and dialed the control center of the prison. She recognized the guard who picked up the phone as Geary.

"Yes?" he said. She could hear him chewing.

"Geary? It's Dr. Tancredi," she said.

"What's up, Doc?" he asked, and she heard him chuckle to himself.

"Sound the alarm," she said, and her voice trembled.

"What?" Geary's voice became instantly serious. "What's going on?"

"Sound the alarm, Geary," she repeated. "We've had an escape."


	40. Chapter 40

Lincoln drove in the silent car. He'd wanted to turn on the radio, but Michael had forbidden it. When he'd explained why, Lincoln had listened.

He'd forgotten that Michael literally had plans for everything.

They'd gotten civilian clothes from a grave in Oswego, along with a backpack filled with things. ID's, money, and passports. Some non-perishable food items.

"You planned for everything," Lincoln had said.

"You're the one who pointed out I don't take a piss without a plan," Michael had replied mildly. "This was infinitely more important than a piss."

Now they'd been driving for nearly four hours. The dashboard clock read 5:13 AM.

"Do you think they've noticed we're gone yet?" Sucre asked. "I mean…"

"Well, if Michael hadn't rigged the fucking radio to explode, we could check," Lincoln snarked, "but we have no way of knowing, do we?"

Michael chuckled. "Are you really bitching about the radio, Linc?" he asked. "You were supposed to die in less than 48 hours, and now you're driving down the highway, almost to Dallas City—"

"That's close to the border, ain't it?" Lincoln asked.

"It's right on the border," Michael said. "Then we're going south."

"Hey look! Dallas City!" Sucre read off the sign as they passed into city limits. "We're almost out of the state, boys!"

"Just keep driving," Michael said. "As much ground as we can cover before they realize we're gone—"

"Couldn't you have rigged a bomb somewhere else?" Lincoln asked. "A radio would have been useful, man."

Michael rolled his eyes and turned to Sucre. "Hand me that backpack," he said.

Sucre grabbed the knapsack off the seat and gave it to Michael, who opened it and started digging.

"What, that's like that bag of Mary Poppins'? You can just pull whatever the fuck we need from there? Got a presidential pardon or three down there too?" Lincoln asked, sparing his brother a glance.

Michael pulled out a small radio. "Not everything we need. But I do have a radio."

Lincoln's jaw dropped. He stared at Michael for a long second.

"Watch the road, man!" Sucre said. "Last thing we need right now is to get pulled over!"

Lincoln straightened out the wheels of the car as Michael inserted some batteries into the back of the radio. "You're something else man," he said.

"He committed a fake bank robbery. He's got the blueprints of a prison tattooed on his body. He broke us out. And you just realized that he's something else 'cause he's got a radio?" Sucre laughed. "Man, do you pay attention to your brother at all?"

Lincoln startled slightly at the question. He hadn't been, really. He'd been trusting that Michael had a plan, because Michael was a genius, and he always had a plan. But he hadn't really been paying attention. Not to the specifics. He hadn't noticed so much. Including the unforgivable; he hadn't noticed that Michael had been attacked in the prison. When had he lost the ability to read his brother's eyes? How had he missed that?

His brother caught his eyes, and shook his head. "Don't, Linc," he said.

So Michael could still read his. "He's right," Lincoln replied. "I didn't pay attention. How did I not notice? How could you get raped in there without me even knowing, even seeing SOMETHING in your eyes?"

Michael froze, and Sucre startled. "What the fuck?" he said. "Lincoln, what the hell are you talking about? Michael didn't get—I mean, T-Bag didn't get him. Patterson got there before—" 

"Not T-Bag," Lincoln said. He spared his brother another look. Michael was frozen, his face distinctly awkward. "We aren't there anymore, Michael. Tell me who it was."

Michael bit his lip, then winced because it was still healing from T-Bag's beating. "Not now, Lincoln. Don't."

"Wait. Papi, you said he didn't—"

"He didn't, Sucre," Michael said. He flipped on the radio. "What's a station that plays news?"

"Don't switch the subject, Michael!" Lincoln said.

"I'm not," Michael denied. "You're the one who wanted to know if they knew we were missing yet. I'm finding some news."

Michael spun the dial. Music crackled in and out, country, rock, more country, some smooth jazz, and then a voice.

"It's Rod Rodney with KJLM Radio, and here's your latest news!" a DJ's smooth voice interjected.

"Gas prices are up again, and local experts don't believe they'll be going down any time soon, says a standard report out of—"

"I think we'd be bigger news than gas prices," Michael said.

"Yeah, me too," Lincoln replied.

"So they haven't realized we're gone yet?" Sucre asked.

"Doesn't seem like it," Michael replied. "Hopefully, we still have a few hours until they do. Sara doesn't come in until seven or so. Obviously, after that…" Michael didn't finish his statement. The radio babbled on in the background.

"You're worried about her," Lincoln said.

Michael nodded. "I left her a note," he said.

Both Lincoln and Sucre's heads swiveled towards Michael. "What?" they cried in chorus.

"Watch the road!" Michael said to Lincoln. "I left her a note."

"Saying what?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah, what? "We broke out, sorry I lied to you, I can explain?" Sucre asked. "'Cause ese, that's not gonna work. That doesn't even work when you show up ten minutes late for something!"

Michael sighed. "That was about it," he said.

"You didn't tell her where we were headed, did you?" Lincoln demanded.

"Do you really think I would do that, Lincoln?" Michael asked.

"With you, I never know," Lincoln replied. Michael-sense. He'd never understand.

"I signed it love," Michael said after a few moments of silence.

Lincoln didn't know what to say, so he continued with silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sucre's hand move and gently land on Michael's shoulder.

"So you told the truth, Papi," he said.

Michael nodded slowly. "And she's never going to believe me."

Lincoln saw Sucre squeeze Michael's shoulder. "Have some faith," he said. "Things will turn out okay."


	41. Chapter 41

Sara's eyes were crossing. "I've already told this to two different officers," she said. "Please."

"We're sorry, Dr. Tancredi," the cop said. "We're just trying to do our jobs."

"As am I," she replied. She kneaded the bridge of her nose. "But I've been answering questions for hours now. Can I please have a break, get some lunch, use the bathroom? I've really told you everything."

It was the truth. She had told them all about yesterday. About Michael's disassociation and Lincoln's reaction, about how Michael had begged her to let him see his brother, how she'd felt sorry for him because Lincoln was scheduled to be executed and so arranged for Lincoln to spend the night in the infirmary. How she'd locked the men in and left. No, she didn't know they were going to attempt to escape. No, she hadn't wanted to aid them in escaping. No, she hadn't known that Sucre was going to go with them.. No, she wouldn't have done that had she known what would happen.

Except the kiss. She hadn't told them about the kiss. And she wouldn't.

"Yes, of course, Dr. Tancredi. Can you be back here in an hour?"

Sara glanced at her watch. "I'll be back," she promised. She turned quickly and fled for the staff bathroom.

She locked the bathroom door and leaned against the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She looked so tired, so pale. "Michael," she whispered. It was a question…she just wasn't sure what she was asking.

She felt her eyes start to tear up and grabbed a Kleenex, sniffling. Had he just used her? Had that kiss just been a ploy, a way to open her up, to make her vulnerable enough to do what he wanted? He'd been planning this, she was sure. Michael was every inch a planner. So that kiss…

She remembered what he said. "That wasn't planned either," as he'd pulled away from her mouth. And his eyes. She'd only seen truth in those eyes. Love and sadness.

She set her mouth in a firm line. Obviously, he was a good actor.

She pushed the Kleenex into her pocket. Her hand brushed paper.

Suddenly, she remembered the crane from earlier. She pulled it out.

It was made of plain white paper. She looked at it for a moment. Part of her wanted to crumple it up and throw it away, but she couldn't make her hand do it. She sighed. Then, carefully, she unfolded the crane and smoothed it out before reading what had been written there.

It didn't affect her. He was a liar. That's what she told herself as she read each word. And then she came to the last part. Love, Michael.

Her eyes caught on those words. Love, Michael. Love.

That was what she'd thought she'd seen in his eyes. What she thought she'd felt in his kiss. But how could she love a man who was a con? Who'd broken out of prison, along with two other prisoners? Who was on the run? Who had disappeared?

She couldn't.

She just couldn't. Her heart broke.

Carefully, though, she folded the paper back into the form of a crane, and slipped it back into her pocket. She couldn't throw it away, either.

She stared at herself in the mirror. So what was she supposed to do, then?

She pulled out the crane again and looked at it.

Maybe she couldn't love a con who'd broken out of prison with two other prisoners…but she could love a man who'd sacrificed everything to save his brother and help a friend, who was doing what he thought was right, who was in danger. She could do that.

So now, she would just have to wait and see who Michael Scofield really was.

She couldn't help but hope that his eyes weren't liars.


	42. Chapter 42

"The batteries are starting to die," Sucre said to Michael.

"There's more in the front pocket of the backpack," Michael replied, not taking his eyes from the road. He and Lincoln had switched seats a few hours before, and he'd been driving ever since. Sucre popped the old batteries out of the radio and replaced them.

"Breaking news from Joliet, Illinois," the DJ said. "Three men have escaped from Fox River Penitentiary—"

"Shit, guys, this is us," Lincoln said, holding up his hands for silence.

"Almost nine hours later," Sucre said.

"Well, I guess it's national news now," Michael said.

"We're national news. Mi mamá será tan orgullosa," Sucre said.

"How many times do I have to tell you to speak English?" Lincoln said, but not with any real conviction. Both Sucre and Michael ignored him.

"I don't know if our mother would be proud of us," Michael replied to Sucre, "but it hardly matters."

"I think she would be," Sucre said. "You saved your brother's life. What mom wouldn't be proud of that?"

"Shut up; I wanna hear what they're saying," Lincoln said. The three men dropped into silence again.

"Presently, they are assumed to have escaped at some point between midnight and 5:30 AM this morning. Their whereabouts are unknown at present, but they are expected to still be within walking range of the prison—"

"Obviously, we were underestimated," Michael said.

"Thank God," Sucre said, crossing himself.

"Will you guys shut up?" Lincoln asked.

"They are assumed armed and dangerous. If you see them, please call your local police or the FBI at—"

"They have the feds after us?" Sucre said.

"I said this was deeper than we knew," Michael replied. "It's a conspiracy, Sucre."

"I thought you were just being loco!"

"Unfortunately, no," Michael replied. "They cooked evidence. Lincoln didn't kill Terrence Steadman."

"Well, how do you run from Feds, Michael?" Sucre asked, switching off the radio to save the batteries.

Surprisingly, it was Lincoln who answered. "You go to Panama. There are no extradition laws."

Sucre stared at the back of Lincoln's head. "We're going to Panama?"

Michael looked at him. "We're going to Panama."

Sucre swallowed hard. "I gotta call Maricruz," he said. "She's gotta come with me."

"Later," Lincoln said. "We'll get a cell phone we can toss."

"You can call LJ too, and Veronica. Tell them you're okay, so they don't worry," Michael said.

"Veronica's going to throw a fit," Lincoln said. "And Lisa…Lisa's going to kill me."

"Do you realize how ironic that statement is?" Michael asked. "I think Veronica will be glad you're still alive, Linc."

"I'm just glad that my son isn't going to have to watch me die," Lincoln said, sounding serious suddenly. "That I won't only get to hold him one more time…and then just be gone, and never see him again."

The car was silent after that, the three men all thinking. Thinking about what they were losing, what they were gaining, and what was still unknown.

Suddenly, Michael put his foot on the brakes. "You want to drive for awhile, Sucre?" he asked over his shoulder, pulling to the side of the road.

"Sure," Sucre said.

Michael put the car in park and he and Sucre switched seats. "You okay, Papi?" Sucre asked as he adjusted the seat for his own shorter frame.

"Yeah," Michael said. "I'm just tired."

Lincoln caught his eyes then, and Michael saw him shake his head slightly. He never could lie to his brother. He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat.

"I'm going to take a nap," he said. "Wake me up in an hour or two."

"Alright," Sucre said. He put the car in drive and pulled back onto the road. Michael sighed and let the rocking of the car on the road try to ease him into something resembling sleep.


	43. Chapter 43

When Michael woke hours later, it was because the car had stopped. "What's going on?" he asked groggily.

"We're beat," Lincoln said. "Sucre ran in to get a room."

Michael looked out the window, where the sun was setting. They were parked outside a shabby looking motel. The sign bragged, "cleand daily. $19/nite."

"Nice place," he said.

"Cheap place," Lincoln said. "It won't hurt anything. We're states away from Illinois, in a car that no one knows we have, with several thousand dollars worth of cash in a backpack. I think we can afford a hot shower and sleeping between sheets."

"Yeah, alright," Michael agreed. His stomach twisted slightly, but he pushed the nerves away. Lincoln's words were completely logical and rational. It would be fine.

Sucre emerged from the office holding up a key. "C'mon," he said.

Michael and Lincoln both climbed out of the car, and Michael grabbed the backpack and the black trash bag with their extra clothing, swinging the pack onto his shoulder. "Let's go," his brother said, lightly shoving his back. They walked after Sucre, to room number five.

The lock stuck a little, but finally they managed to get it open. When he walked inside, Michael wrinkled his nose at the smell; stale, like old blankets and even older sex.

"Fuck, it smells like Fox River," Sucre said. He shut the door behind them and locked it before turning to face them.

Lincoln raised his eyebrows. "What exactly goes on in Gen Pop, now that they stuck me in B-Wing, anyway? I don't remember it smelling quite this bad."

"Shut up, you two," Michael said. He peeled the blanket off one of the beds and tossed it on the floor. The sheets underneath only smelled like industrial bleach. "It's just the blankets."

"Damn, don't they ever change those things?" Sucre asked, gingerly peeling the blanket off the other bed and discarding it on the floor in a heap.

"I think I'd consider us lucky to have clean sheets," Michael replied. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "We should get that cell phone tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay," his brother replied.

"Listen, I'm gonna take a shower. It's been so fucking long since I've taken a shower by myself…" Sucre stood up and started towards the bathroom. "Hell, I been dreaming about this!"

He disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Michael and Lincoln grinned at each other; they understood exactly what he meant.

Once the water turned on, Lincoln looked at Michael. "You still didn't tell me who it was, Michael," he said, standing in front of his brother, his arms crossed over his chest. Again, Michael's brain brought up a similar scene from his childhood; of Lincoln, standing in front of his bed, arms crossed, demanding an explanation. Some things never changed.

Michael sighed. How could he just keep coming back to this subject like he'd never left? "I'm not going to," Michael replied. "Why does it matter, Linc?"

"Have you looked at your face? Your lip is split, and you've got bruises covering almost everything from forehead to chin!" Lincoln's voice raised slightly.

"Keep it down, man," Michael said. "That was from T-Bag. Which you knew. That has nothing to do with—"

"And your cellie didn't know? How did Sucre not know, Michael? He's practically always with you! And—" Suddenly, Lincoln's face darkened. "Michael. You took him with us?"

"What?" Michael asked.

"He raped you, and you took him with us? What the fuck is wrong with—"

It hit Michael what Lincoln was saying. "Sucre? No!" His mouth dropped open. "Dear god, Lincoln. He's one of the best people I know!"

Lincoln stared him down, and Michael let him. Finally, Lincoln's shoulders dropped. "Well, then, how the fuck did he not know?"

"Keep it down, Linc!" Michael said again. "Do you think I went around advertising?"

"It's not hard to tell," Lincoln replied, his voice quieter. "You've been in for any amount of time, you know what it looks like."

"Let it go!" Michael felt anxiety rising in his chest, and he desperately pushed it down. He couldn't leave right now, he had to stay and deal with this, without setting off any more of his brother's suspicions. He kicked his legs up onto the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. His eyes noticed the millions of little dots of texture up there.

His brother's enormous melon-head moved into his range of sight. "Michael. I don't want to let it go. I want to know why you won't tell me."

Michael flipped onto his side, turning his back to his brother. The emotions kept rising through his chest, up his neck, and into his eyes. "Leave it alone!" he snapped, shutting his eyes. He wasn't going to cry, damn it.

But the memories threatened to overwhelm him. A plethora of them. His foster father's hands, caressing him, holding him down…interspersed with T-Bag's hands, roughly tying his hands behind his back. Another set of hands, this one without a name, tying his hands there. "I paid for you; I'll do what I please," the man said, his voice harsh to Michael's frightened ears. He pulled himself free from the memories with a desperate mental wrench.

Michael raised his hands, covering his face. "Just let it go, Lincoln." He felt sick to his stomach. Tears splashed down onto the palms of his hands. "Goddamn it, let it go."

He felt his brother's hand land gently on his back. "Michael—" Lincoln said.

Michael pulled away, scrambling awkwardly off the end of the bed. "Don't." Right now, the idea of anyone, even his brother, touching him made him feel nauseous. He swiped at his face again, trying to wipe away the evidence of his weakness. "I'll be back in a couple minutes."

He grabbed the room key off the battered nightstand and shoved it into the pocket of his blue jeans.

"Where are you going, Michael?" Lincoln asked, looking at him with wide eyes.

"For a walk," Michael replied. He turned and walked out of the door, letting it fall shut behind him and walking into the dusk.

Only when he had gotten out of range of his brother's sight from the motel's window did he allow the tears to fall down his cheeks.


	44. Chapter 44

Lincoln stared at Michael's retreating form from the window. Something was wrong here. This just did not make sense.

There was no reason for Michael not to tell him who had attacked him. If the guy was dead, it wasn't like Lincoln could re-kill him…not that he wouldn't, if it was possible. And even if the guy was alive, it wasn't like they were in the prison anymore. There was no way for Lincoln to get at him. So why wouldn't he say?

He'd seen his brother's tears, even though Michael had tried to hide them. Michael cried much more than Lincoln ever had, it was true, but never for no reason. His brother just seemed to feel pain more acutely than anyone else Lincoln had ever known.

Lincoln just wanted to help. He knew that he wasn't going about it in the right way. Intellectually, he knew that. He knew that every time he asked Michael who it had been, he ripped a chunk out of him. He could see it in Michael's eyes. But he couldn't seem to stop.

Despite what Michael said, over and over, it did matter. It mattered. Not because it truly mattered who had hurt Michael; it mattered because Michael didn't trust him enough to tell him.

Was he being selfish? Yes. And no. Because he wanted his brother to tell him, instead of just keeping it to himself so that he could do something for him. If Sucre hadn't known, and Lincoln hadn't known, that meant that the only one who knew was Michael. Lincoln knew better than to think Michael would have told the doctor, not with that strange love he had for her. He wouldn't have wanted her to see him as a victim. And other than that, Michael had no one. He knew Veronica had visited Michael a few times, but surely Vee would have told him something so important. So Michael was all alone, with that secret of his. And it was obviously eating at him. Tearing him apart. Hence the tears, and the way he'd jerked away from Lincoln's hand on his back like it had burned him.

Lincoln sighed and pushed back from the window, letting the curtain fall. He sat down on the edge of the bed that Michael had left only a few minutes before and propped his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. Suddenly, he felt so very fucking tired.

It really didn't make sense that Sucre didn't know. The men had been cellmates, and even more than that, they had a genuine friendship. He knew that Sucre had only known Michael for a little more than three weeks, but even if they'd been enemies, Sucre should have known. He'd been in jail for awhile now; he knew what the signs were when someone got turned out.

Lincoln remembered his first stint in actual prison, when he was 18. Luckily, the first guy who had tried for him, a fat giant of a man, had gone down and stayed there, and after that, no one was going to mess with Linc the Sink. He'd only won because of sheer adrenaline, surprise, and a need to survive, but he'd never admit that.

But Michael…Michael was tall, yes, but lean, and looked delicate. His bones were smaller; he took after their mother. He was, as T-Bag had so mercilessly pointed out, pretty. As soon as Lincoln had seen his brother standing in the chapel, he'd worried about the other cons attacking him. And it had happened.

Behind his back, Lincoln heard a door close. "Oh, that was so fucking nice, man," Sucre said. He babbled something in Spanish that sounded much too cheerful for Lincoln to handle right now. "Where's Michael, anyway?"

"He's gone," Lincoln said, turning to face Sucre, who was standing there with a towel wrapped around his hips. "How did you not notice?" 

"What are you talking about, man? I noticed he was gone right away." Sucre walked over to the black trash bag that Michael had left on the floor and started digging through it, grabbing fresh clothes. "Hey. There's a pack of razors in here!" He carried the clothing and razors back into the bathroom, shutting the door again.

Lincoln forced back a growl of frustration. "Not that Michael was missing, you moron. How did you not notice that he got raped in there?"

There was a moment of stark silence, and then the bathroom door swung open again. Sucre had jeans on now, and he stepped into the doorway, buttoning the top button. "He didn't get raped in there, Lincoln."

"That's what I mean," Lincoln said. "He did. And you didn't notice. How'd that happen?" His voice was rising again. "I mean, you've been there long enough to know what it looks like when someone—"

"Yeah, I have," Sucre said. "It didn't happen, man." His eyes met Lincoln's. Those brown eyes were filled with confusion. "You said something about that in the car too. Why you saying stuff like that? T-Bag didn't get him."

"Not by T-Bag, you idiot," Lincoln said. If he'd had any hair, he would have pulled it out with frustration. "Before T-Bag."

"What? No. Nothing happened to him, man. Well, except for Abruzzi cutting off his toes, and that weirdness with Haywire and—"

"Sucre!" Lincoln shouted, jumping to his feet.

Sucre flinched slightly. "Lo siento." He watched Lincoln warily. Lincoln shook his head.

"They threw T-Bag in the cell next to mine in the SHU. And T-Bag spent the next hour or so telling me all about what he'd done to Michael. Every disgusting detail." Lincoln swallowed. "I exploded; hit the wall and tore open my knuckles. Lewis took me to the infirmary. And on the way there, I saw Michael. Who was fine, more or less.

"Then I talked to the doc, and she told me that T-Bag hadn't actually raped him. So when I went back to the SHU, T-Bag and I talked some more."

"You know T-Bag's a liar, Lincoln. Why would you listen to anything he says?" Sucre asked. He walked back into the bathroom and grabbed the tee shirt he'd left on the counter, slipping it over his head.

"I didn't want to. But he told me that Michael had told him…" Lincoln stopped talking. Why was he telling Sucre this? It wasn't really any of his business.

"Told him what, ese?" Sucre asked. Lincoln looked at the Puerto Rican, who was watching him with intense brown eyes. "What did that pendejo say?"

"Do you really care?" Lincoln asked. "About Michael, I mean?"

Sucre looked like Lincoln had hit him. "Si. I care," he said, sounding insulted.

Lincoln studied Sucre for another moment. His brown eyes were angry. Finally, he nodded succinctly. "Alright," he said. "He told me that Michael had said…Shit!"

Lincoln started to pace back and forth in the small space between the beds. "T-Bag told Michael he'd wanted to be the first to, you know, and Michael told him he wouldn't be. The first, I mean." He could hear that he sounded angry, and he was, but he was also confused, and anguished. He dared a look at Sucre's face.

The man's eyebrows had risen nearly to his hairline. "Don't get pissed at me for this, man," he said cautiously, "but your brother isn't…like that, is he? I mean, I never got no vibes like that—"

Lincoln's fist rose before he could stop himself. Sucre ducked sideways. "No, man! I was just askin', please don't kill me!" he said, and then started off into another streak of Spanish.

Lincoln dropped his fist. "No, he's not," he said darkly. "You know he's got a thing for that doctor."

The Spanish tapered off. Lincoln watched Sucre swallow. "Si. He signed that note, love," Sucre said. "So T-Bag was lying, ese. That's all there is to it."

"That's what I thought," Lincoln said. "But T-Bag told me to watch his eyes. And he's right you know; Michael's eyes can't lie. He's never been able to. So I asked him, and I watched. And T-Bag…" Lincoln clenched his teeth together again. "Michael was lying. Not T-Bag."

Sucre's mouth dropped open. Lincoln nodded. '

"Yeah. So my question is, how did you miss it?"

"But I didn't miss it, man," Sucre said. "I know what it looks like, okay? The cellie I had before Michael? Was a kid, maybe nineteen or so. Pissed off Bellick something awful. Still not sure what the kid did, but whatever. And Bellick stuck him in with Avocado."

Lincoln winced.

"Yeah. I know what it looks like when someone's been turned out, ese. It didn't happen to Michael."

Lincoln took a step back from Sucre and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. If Michael hadn't been turned out in prison…

"It must have happened before, then," he whispered.

Sucre whispered something in Spanish, and crossed himself. Lincoln didn't know what he said, but he nodded anyway.

"Yeah."


	45. Chapter 45

Michael chose a track phone from the few possibilities on the plastic swiveling rack. It was amazing to him, that a little gas station in the middle of nowhere would sell track phones, but he wasn't going to complain.

He paid for his purchase with cash. The cashier, a bored-looking teenage boy, didn't look at him once during the entire transaction. "Need your receipt?" the boy asked him, holding it out.

Michael took it without words and left the gas station, a bell tinkling. He left the hood of his sweatshirt over his head until he was back on the highway, walking towards the motel in the dark. No use letting a camera get a good look at him after all.

He called 411 first. "Sara Tancredi, Chicago, Illinois?" he said. He used a pen taken from the hotel to write the number on his wrist, right above where the tattoos stopped. "Yes, please connect me."

He gripped the phone so tightly his fingers felt numb. It was around nine at night. Sara would be home from work by now on an average day, he knew, but this day would have been anything but average.

"Hello?" She sounded slightly breathless. And it was his Sara. His breath caught in his throat. "Hello?"

"Sara?" he said.

There was a silence so stark he wondered for a nanosecond if she may have passed out. Then, finally, she spoke. "Michael?" she asked. Her voice was carefully shielded; try as he might, Michael couldn't read anything there.

"It's me," he replied.

"You broke out of prison. Out of the infirmary. Do you know how bad that makes me look?" Sara asked. Now he could hear anger.

"Yes. I'm sorry," he replied. "It had to be done. They were going to kill him for a crime he didn't commit, Sara. I couldn't let that happen."

"Why did you call me?" she asked. "I can't just…I mean, now that you called me, I'm going to have to tell the cops."

"You insisted, yesterday, that we talk tomorrow," Michael said. He paused, and heard something that might have been a startled almost-chuckle. "And I wanted to remind you that you promised to let me explain. And I will, Sara. I will explain everything."

There was a long, long silence. Michael held his breath, waiting.

"Will you explain the crane you left?" Sara asked quietly.

Michael breathed in softly. "I meant every word. Every one," he repeated for emphasis. "I never meant to…it wasn't part of the plan, to fall in love with you. But it happened. And I'm so sorry that it has to be like this…"

"Oh Michael," she said, and he could hear her softening towards him.

"Maybe, in another life," he said, "things would have been different. But I do love you, Sara, and I hope that eventually, this can work. Somehow."

"Michael. I…I still work for the prison. There's a manhunt going on for the three of you. And I don't know what to do. Because what my job says is right is not what my heart says is right." She sounded pained.

"What is that, Sara?" he asked. He wanted to hear it from her own lips.

"My job says I should call the cops and tell them you called. Get them to try to trace this number, although I'm sure you're much too smart to have a phone that they can actually trace. Try to get you to tell me where you are."

"And your heart?" Michael asked, his own somewhere in his throat.

"My heart? My heart," she whispered, and he heard her sniff, "says to tell you to be careful, to run like hell, to save your brother, and not to hurt anyone. Which is a dumb thing to say, since I know you, Lincoln, and Sucre are all good men at heart."

"He didn't kill Terrence Steadman, Sara," Michael said. "I know it sounds crazy, but there really is a conspiracy. It's deep, and it goes all the way up to the president. I spent so long trying to get to the bottom of it, but there was no bottom to find. And so I decided that I'd searched enough, and I had to actually do something." He didn't know why he was pouring all this out to her, but he didn't stop. "So I planned. Planned everything. How I'd get in, how I'd get out, who I'd involve, how I'd flee. But then there was you. And you were not part of the plan. Because I was not supposed to fall in love with you."

"Oh, Michael," she whispered again.

"I'll call you again," he said. "If you want."

She didn't answer immediately, and Michael's heart hurt. Finally, he heard her sigh.

"Be careful, Michael," she said. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Michael smiled, even though she couldn't see it. "Goodbye, Sara."

"Goodbye," she whispered.

Michael closed the phone and put it in his pocket. He continued walking down the road in the dark.

So she hadn't exactly forgiven him…but she was softening. It was a start, and a better one than he'd hoped for, to be honest. He kept walking, knowing he had several miles to make back to the motel.


	46. Chapter 46

Sucre heard the key in the door and sat straight up. "Michael?" he asked cautiously.

The door opened. "It's me. I have a phone." Michael lobbed a phone at him in an easy underhand. "Call your girl."

Sucre caught it. "Papi, you're somethin' else," he said, grinning as he jumped to his feet. He dialed Maricruz's number from memory, and walked out the door.

She picked up on the first ring. "Theresa?" she said, sounding distracted.

"No, baby, it's me," Sucre said, loving the sound of her voice. "Didn't check the caller ID?"

"Oh my god," she said. "Baby? Where are you?" He could hear tears in her voice, suddenly, and they made him nervous.

"Don't be mad at me, Maricruz. Please. I did this for our baby. For us. We're gonna get married and live happily ever after, baby. You have to come with me." Sucre was practically stumbling over his own words, but he was excited. "Please, say yes, Maricruz. Say yes."

"I said yes a long time ago," she whispered. He could practically see her beautiful brown eyes, her dimpled cheeks, her smile. "You know that."

"You'd do that for me?" Sucre's heart was in his throat. He had the best woman in the world; he didn't deserve her, but he could thank God for her every day.

"I'd do that for us, 'Nando," Maricruz replied. He could hear the happy tears in her voice. "For all of us."

"Oh, mi amor," he said. "I'll talk to Michael. He'll make a plan; he's always got a plan! Oh, mami, I'm so happy!" Spontaneously, he jumped up in the air, pumping his free fist. Well, it wasn't like there was anyone around to see him.

"Me too, Fernando," she whispered. "Me too."

"I'll call you back when there's a plan. Te prometo, mi amor," Sucre said, pacing back and forth. "I gotta get this phone to Lincoln so he can call his kid and his girl too, and then we're gonna toss it, so don't bother trying to call it, ok? I love you, baby."

"Love you too, 'Nando," Maricruz said.

He reluctantly pressed the end call button. It was okay, though. His girl was coming with him, and they'd be okay, living in Panama, and their life would be good. Everything was gonna be good. He whispered a quick prayer and crossed himself. God-willing.

He walked back inside the motel room, practically vibrating with excitement. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his tennis shoes.

"How's your girl?" Michael asked, his eyes focused on the laces of his sneakers.

"She's coming with, Papi! She's gonna meet me, and we're gonna get married, and—" Sucre cut himself off. "Did you call Sara?"

Michael looked up at him with surprise on his face. "How did you know?" he asked.

"You called her! What did she say?" Sucre asked, sitting on the other bed, across from Michael.

He watched as the slightest hint of a smile appeared on Michael's lips. "I've heard her sound angrier," he replied.

"So…?" Sucre asked, not quite sure what Michael meant.

Michael's eyes met his. "She told me to be careful. And to take care of myself." That not-quite-smile was still there, mostly in Michael's eyes.

"She cares, Papi, " Sucre said. "She didn't just tell you to go fuck yourself. That's a good sign. Especially considering that you really did pull one over on her."

"I wouldn't have done it that way if I could have thought of another," Michael said. "I was running out of time, and running out of options."

"I think part of her sees that, man. Be careful? Take care of yourself? Those words, they're practically an I love you. From her, right now? Seriously, ese. She still works there; she's gotta look like she wants you caught. Or else it's gonna be a lot of trouble for her, since you escaped from the infirmary, and all. But…"

"Her heart," Michael said, and Sucre got the distinct feeling he was echoing something. "Her heart tells her something else."

"Yeah, man. That's what I mean," Sucre replied.

Michael sighed. He pulled off his socks and stuffed them inside his shoes. "Linc's in the shower?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. Has been for awhile," Sucre replied. "Can't blame him. The guy's been in prison a lot longer than I was, and…" Sucre trailed off, realizing that Michael would very likely not appreciate a joke about soap right now.

Michael nodded and pulled off his hooded sweatshirt. "I think I'll take a shower before we leave tomorrow," he said. "I need some sleep." He rubbed at his heavily tattooed arms before pulling back the sheets and sliding underneath, still dressed in a tee shirt and blue jeans.

"You got more sleep than any of us, today," Sucre said.

Michael didn't answer him, shutting his eyes. Sucre looked at him for a long second before turning off the main light, leaving just a lamp on. He pulled off his shirt and climbed into the other bed. The brothers could share, he decided.

He sighed and looked at Michael again. There was a long story there, and he knew Lincoln was going to pull it out of him. Sucre didn't know how he'd try to get at a subject like that. He was glad he didn't have to, honestly. Some things were just best left in the dark.

"'Night, Papi," he said, wondering if somehow Michael had managed to fall asleep already.

"Goodnight," Michael said back. Guess not.

Sucre shut his eyes. Tomorrow would come soon enough.


	47. Chapter 47

Lincoln sighed, and finally turned off the water with a little wistfulness. It had been a very long time since he'd gotten to take a shower that was longer than five minutes…or that he would want to, even. But this…this had been amazing.

Lincoln toweled off and pulled on a pair of sweatpants he'd taken from that bag Michael had buried in a grave. He looked up at the mirror, foggy with steam.

He hadn't seen his own reflection in awhile. In the SHU, there weren't mirrors. Now, he looked at his face. He looked a little bit older, with a deeper frown line creasing his forehead. All of those worries. Worries about Michael…about LJ…about Vee...

He hadn't worried about himself so much. He'd somehow made peace with the fact that he was going to die, until Michael showed up, and promised him a way out. And then, he'd been so busy worrying about Michael…

Michael. He'd managed to lie to him while telling the truth. Well, he hadn't exactly lied. He'd merely agreed with the story that Lincoln had told himself. And Lincoln hadn't looked closely enough to see that was all Michael was doing, was agreeing.

But as awful as it was to think Michael had been raped in prison, that was something Lincoln could understand. Not accept, no, but understand. He understood that his brother, a non-violent man who was 'pretty' would be a target for attacks of that nature. It was why his stomach had twisted so much when he'd seen Michael in the chapel, dressed in prison blues. He'd known it was a possibility, and that there was no way for him to protect him, not stuck in the SHU like he was.

But that wasn't the story. Sucre would have known; Lincoln had confirmed it. It had happened some other time, some other place. And that…that was what was killing Lincoln.

He slammed his fist down hard against the counter before he even realized he wanted to. Pain radiated up his arm, but he didn't make any sort of move to suppress it or comfort it.

He wanted to grab Michael, to shake him and scream at him until he told Lincoln the whole story. No more of this evasive crap, no more lies, no more half-truths. Just what happened. Lincoln knew this wasn't fair; Michael had been attacked. He'd been hurt. He knew that his brother deserved some kindness, some gentleness, but his anger over the fact that someone had hurt his brother was rapidly turning into an anger AT Michael, for not telling him. For pretending everything was fine. If T-Bag hadn't done this, Lincoln would have never known anything had happened. As it was, Lincoln still didn't know what had happened. And he needed to.

He gritted his teeth. He and Michael were going to talk. Now. He wasn't going to wait any more.

He flung the bathroom door open. The main room was darkened. Sucre and Michael were both in bed and appeared asleep. Lincoln hesitated for a second. Maybe he should just let Michael sleep? Let it wait until the morning?

He studied Michael longer. Something wasn't right. Lincoln shook his head. He was faking it again.

"Michael, cut the crap," he hissed. "I know you're awake."

Michael didn't move, but Lincoln wasn't about to give up. He strode over to the empty side of the bed and plopped down. "Michael, don't pull this shit. You aren't a kid anymore."

"Could have fooled me," Michael whispered back. "I keep waiting for you to threaten to beat me if I don't start talking." Despite the teasing nature of his words, Michael didn't sound like he was joking.

"Don't tempt me," Lincoln replied. He reached over Michael and turned off the lamp before sliding underneath the covers. "Sucre and I were talking."

Lincoln wasn't touching Michael, but he could feel him stiffen anyway. "Why?" he asked. Lincoln could hear Michael's attempts to sound nonchalant.

"Because," Lincoln whispered back. "I knew he'd been in there long enough to know what it looks like when someone gets turned out. And he told me that you never did."

Michael's back was still to him, and still as stiff as a board. "I told you I didn't," he murmured after a long pause. "You didn't believe me."

Lincoln growled at the back of Michael's head. "Don't play stupid, Michael. I know that someone did something to you."

His brother's silence spoke volumes. Lincoln continued on.

"Why won't you tell me what really happened? Now that we both know it wasn't at Fox River. What happened to you, Michael?"

"Nothing," Michael said, his voice dead.

Lincoln grabbed Michael's arm and yanked on it hard, flipping him over so they were face to face. He caught a glimpse of sheer terror on Michael's face, before it dropped into blankness.

"No, Michael," he said. "Don't do that. Stay with me. Do you hear me?" His voice got louder, and he left his hand on Michael's arm.

Michael nodded mutely. "Keep it down," he muttered. "You're gonna wake Sucre."

Lincoln growled again. "Michael. I swear to God—Just tell me, okay?"

"Lincoln, please," Michael said. His eyes dropped closed. "I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?" Lincoln asked.

"It's done. It's the past. It should stay there."

"Michael—"

"Do you really want to know, Lincoln?" he asked. Suddenly, his brother's eyes were open, were locked on his own in the dark. "I mean, really? Do you really want to hear this? It's not like it can be un-heard." His whisper was harsh as sandpaper. "Do you really, REALLY want to know what happened to your baby brother, Lincoln?"

Lincoln heard the pain in Michael's voice. "Tell me, Michael," Lincoln said softly. "Come on, man. Whatever it was, you know I'm here for you, don't you?" He patted Michael's shoulder lightly.

Right in front of his eyes, Michael seemed to shrink. His body barely moved, but something about him shrank, until Lincoln saw Michael as the boy who used to be terrified of the monsters in the closet, who'd crawled into bed with him so his brother could keep him safe, so he could sleep.

"Hey. It's okay," he said. He moved a little closer to his brother, carefully putting his arm over his back. "It's okay, Michael. Please, tell me."

He could feel Michael's ribs move up and down as he breathed. Deep breaths; Lincoln knew he was trying to steady himself. He gave him the time.

"Just…please, don't…you have to know that I didn't…" Michael didn't seem capable of finishing a sentence.

"Michael. I'm your brother. I'm not gonna blame you for something that's not your fault," Lincoln said, trying to have patience.

"Yeah, but what about something that is?" Michael asked.

"We'll see," Lincoln said. "Please. Just tell me, man."

Michael sighed. "Do you remember when you were in juvie, and they sent me to that foster home? The one at Pershing Avenue?"

"The one where your foster father died? Got murdered?" Lincoln whispered back, his stomach twisting. Oh God. This was horrifying. Michael had only been ten years old then.

"Yeah. That one." Lincoln heard Michael swallow hard in the darkness, and his arm tightened reflexively around his brother. "He deserved it, Linc."

And suddenly, his voice broke, and Michael was crying, crying like Lincoln hadn't seen him do for years. He was sobbing, heart-brokenly. Lincoln pulled him closer, his heart aching for his brother. How could someone do that to a child? Michael had just been a kid; who could do that to a kid? It made him feel nauseous.

"Shh. It's okay, Michael," he whispered. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong." He held him tightly, feeling his brother shuddering in his arms. "It wasn't your fault, Michael."

And Michael kept crying, helplessly, and Lincoln just held him, because he had no idea what else to do. This wasn't just a monster in the closet, that Lincoln's presence could scare away. This was a monster that was inside Michael; a monster of memory. And Lincoln knew well that those kind of monsters were the most impossible to exorcise.


	48. Chapter 48

Sucre lay still in the dark, praying fervently. He had woken up when Lincoln had raised his voice…and stayed awake when he'd heard what they were talking about.

He hadn't known Michael had been in foster care growing up. Not that they'd talked a hell of a lot about when they were kids…Sucre couldn't remember saying anything about his own childhood to Michael, except for maybe a random comment here or there about his tía's cooking or how he and his boys used to do this or that, but nothing personal. Prison just wasn't the place for that kind of thing. And Michael hadn't said a word. Nothing about him and Lincoln as kids, nothing about his mom, nothing at all.

Now, listening to Michael sobbing in the dark, Sucre understood why. His mind reeled with the small amount of information he'd already heard. One of Michael's foster fathers had been murdered. And in Michael's mind, he'd deserved it. That told Sucre plenty.

Michael was a peaceful person. Non-violent. Sucre had never seen him attack anyone; even that guy who'd lunged at him on the tier, he'd only side-stepped, not hit or hurt in any way. And that man had been going for a piece of him. So if Michael thought this man deserved to die…Sucre bit at his lower lip as his stomach revolted.

Sucre heard Lincoln's inane whispers, those little nothings you say when someone is crying in your arms, and there's nothing you can do to take away all that pain. He wasn't sure what to do. Part of him wanted to let them know he was awake, could hear them, so if they wanted to keep it private, they could. The other part of him didn't want to disturb them, didn't want Michael to know that Sucre knew his pain. Sometimes it hurt less if other people didn't know. He debated with himself silently, still praying.

He heard Michael choke as he tried to stop crying. "Just breathe," he heard Lincoln say. "You're alright, man. Just breathe."

He couldn't just lie here and listen, and pretend he slept like a corpse. Sucre crossed himself against the thought, and pushed aside the sheets, getting up. He saw Lincoln's eyes dart to him for a millisecond before going back to Michael.

Sucre walked into the bathroom and grabbed one of the industrially-bleached washcloths. He turned on the sink and let the water run cold. When he was a kid and used to cry, his tía used to wash his face off with a wet rag. Couldn't hurt, right?

He wrung out the cloth and came out of the bathroom. Michael's sobs had slowed to something more like hiccups, and he couldn't help but be glad. "Here, Papi," he said quietly, handing Michael the washcloth. He sat down awkwardly on the edge of his bed as Michael wiped off his face.

"What did you hear?" Michael asked. His voice sounded flat. Sucre coughed, uncomfortable. He stared at Michael's back, where Lincoln's hand was resting.

"Your foster dad got murdered, and he deserved it," Sucre replied finally. "And I'm guessing that he's the one who…" Sucre bit his lip, not sure if he should say it.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Yeah, he was." His voice was still flat. "He was the most disgusting creature I'd ever met, before T-Bag. He beat the hell out of me; worse than you ever did Linc, in my entire life, even that one time when you were drunk and I'd stolen your stash—"

Sucre tried rather unsuccessfully to swallow a laugh; a strangled cough came out instead. Here was a childhood memory for you! And a rather abrupt change in subject.

"Michael—" Lincoln said, sounding embarrassed.

"Just saying," Michael said, although he sounded slightly amused at Lincoln's embarrassment and Sucre's laugh. In the next sentence, the amusement was gone. "And yes, he was the one who 'turned me out.' At ten."

Sucre heard Lincoln's curses from a distance. At ten? Ten was a baby, still years away from puberty, even. "Jesús Cristo," he mumbled. The very thought made him sick. He had cousins with kids that age; hell, he had cousins that age. Who could do that to a kid?

"He'd lock me in a closet a lot, with a water heater. I was good at escaping, but of course, he always caught me and beat me and threw me back in there. For days, sometimes. And he'd fuck me, all the time, like I was a whore or something." Michael's voice was strangely expressionless again. "It was summer, so there wasn't school or anything. Just beating and fucking. It was a long summer."

The room was silent. Sucre could hear Lincoln's breathing, angry breathing. He was trying so hard not to explode, but that was all he wanted, Sucre could tell. Sucre's stomach was twisted in knots.

"And then, one day…he'd fucked me, and beaten me, and locked me in that closet again. And I wasn't even trying to escape this time, because I didn't see the point. And then suddenly, the closet door opened, and a man was standing there. Another man."

Sucre heard Michael swallow in the dark again. "He held out his hand, and told me to come with him, and not look. I was scared of him at first, even though I didn't recognize him, because I thought…I thought he was one of his friends."

Sucre caught the implications of that at the same time as Lincoln. He saw Lincoln tense, his hands on Michael's back balling into fists. That guy had invited his friends over to use Michael too? Sucre felt bile creeping up his throat, and he swallowed hard.

"But he took my hand and pulled me out of the closet," Michael continued, his voice steady and numb. "And I looked back…and he was on the floor, in a pool of blood. Dead. I could tell he was dead. And I was glad. And then that man sent me outside, and before I knew what was happening, there were cops everywhere, and the man was gone."

Sucre saw Lincoln's hold on Michael tighten. "Oh, Michael," he heard him whisper. "Michael…"

"So that's the truth, Lincoln," Michael whispered back. "You said you wanted to hear it. You take it back? Now you know; I really am trash." Michael laughed self-depreciatingly.

"Don't say that!" Lincoln barked harshly. Michael just shrugged.

"Why not?" he asked rhetorically.

"Because, Papi," Sucre said. "Wasn't your fault, man. You were just a kid."

Michael chuckled again, without humor. "Doesn't matter," he said.

"Yeah, it does. What about Lincoln's kid?" Sucre asked. "LJ, right? You wouldn't say that about him, would you? No matter what he did, even if some guy did that to him, hell, even if he got desperate and did something really stupid for money, you wouldn't call him trash, would you? 'Cause he's just a kid. And he's a hell of a lot older than you were. You were just a baby, man. Ten years old? Ain't nobody who can take care of themselves at ten years old!"

He'd watched Lincoln through this; his hackles had gone up when he'd said LJ's name, and Sucre had been scared of Lincoln again for a second when he'd ran through those awful rhetorical situations, but when Michael relaxed at the end of his little statement, Lincoln did too. Sucre breathed again.

"What about your wife, man? She was a hooker, wasn't she?" Lincoln added. "But you didn't think of her as trash; you married her so she could get her green card and get a life here." 

"She didn't choose that," Michael said. "She was tricked."

"And at ten years old, you chose to be raped by your foster father? No, Michael," Lincoln said. "Use that brain of yours logically. I know you can."

Michael sighed again. "Unfortunately, I am," he whispered. Sucre barely heard it. He raised his voice a little. "We better get some sleep, or driving's gonna be hellish tomorrow."

"Michael--" Lincoln protested.

"No. Come on. I told you; that's what you wanted, right? I'm tired. I'm going to sleep." Michael pulled away from Lincoln. "Goodnight."

Sucre nodded. He understood; the man wanted to be left alone. Well, he could give him that. "Goodnight," he said, laying back down. He settled between the sheets, trying to relax.

But in his brain, he couldn't stop thinking about Michael as a kid, getting hit, getting hurt, and his foster father lying in a puddle of blood on the floor…

So much for good dreams tonight.


	49. Chapter 49

"So, he had you fooled too, eh, Doc?" T-Bag drawled lazily as the pretty doctor began to examine his bloody hands. He'd pulled a Sink and hit the wall until they'd bled, specifically so he could talk to the Doc.

"Excuse me?" she said, and her eyes met his for a moment. Wide and startled, brown eyes. Like a doe, those eyes.

"That pretty boy. Scofield," T-Bag drawled. "He fooled you too, didn't he?"

The doctor didn't say anything, turning away to grab a roll of gauze. T-Bag smirked.

"He fooled me, that's for sure," T-Bag said. "And I thought myself nigh un-foolable. But I wasn't looking at those pretty eyes of his, was I? No, I was listening to him through the door. And I believed him, when that voice of his told me I was coming with, so I shouldn't sing. But I should have sang, shouldn't I have, Doc?"

The doctor's eyes snapped onto his then. "You knew he was escaping?" she asked.

"Knew? Doc, I was in on it. Accidentally, of course…that pretty boy didn't want me comin' with him…but once I saw the hole in his cell, well, he didn't have a choice, did he? Not if he wanted to get his brother outta here before they fried him."

"Obviously, that didn't work as planned," the doctor said. T-Bag's eyebrows raised.

"Is that sarcasm, doc? Wouldn't a thought you had it in you. Well, there was that little quirk with the SHU…"

"Just goes to show, rape doesn't pay," the doctor said darkly. She finished wrapping one bloody hand. "Other hand."

T-Bag held it out to her like a gentleman. "It could have paid handsomely, had we not been interrupted," T-Bag continued, letting the words traipse off his tongue. "After all, when he talked to me through the door after our little amorous occasion, he said he'd still take me with to save his brother, even if that meant I would eventually get to finish what I started. Said he'd sacrificed his body for his brother before, and he could do it again. And I was sure looking forward to it, um hmm." T-Bag smacked his lips, enjoying watching the pretty doctor's hands shake as she finished wrapping gauze around his knuckles. "'Cause he is the prettiest boy I've ever seen, ya know, Doc? You ever seen one prettier walk through those doors?"

She pulled away from him and gestured out the exam room window to a guard. "We're finished, Lewis," she said as the man came through the door.

T-Bag stood as Lewis handcuffed his hands for transport back to the SHU. "I ain't the only one who thought he was pretty, doc, and neither were you. That boy, he knew all about what I wanted from him. That's how it goes, with the pretty ones."

"Move it, Bagwell," Lewis said, giving him a shove. T-Bag started to walk.

"You just remember that, doc," he said. "Boy as pretty as that? He's done stuff he wouldn't want you to know about."

Lewis pushed him out of the infirmary. "Keep walking, con," he said. "The doctor's got better things to do with her time than listen to the trash that's coming outta your mouth."

T-Bag tried to twist back around, to see if he'd made an impression in those big, brown doe eyes of hers, but Lewis held his arms and sent him forward, and he was denied that last little pleasure.

Sara forced her hands to stop shaking. What did T-Bag know? Surely, he hadn't known Michael better than she had. The man had admitted that Michael hadn't wanted him to come with on the escape; that it was merely a matter of need that had gotten him included at all.

But he spoke with such authority; such knowledge. Like he really did know things about Michael that Sara didn't. Painful things, disgusting things, things from Michael's past that he would never share. But if he wouldn't share them with her, why would he tell T-Bag? He had nothing but contempt for the man; Sara knew this to be true. They wouldn't be swapping deep dark secrets.

He was a liar to the bone, Sara thought. That man had likely never told the truth in his life; wouldn't know it if it bit him. He was psychotic, crazy, a murderer, a rapist, a pedophile…there was absolutely no reason for Sara to put any stock in what he said.

But as she cleaned up, she thought of Michael. Michael, the man for whom she had so many questions. He'd promised her answers; said they existed. And she wanted to know them.

She wanted to know him. Because no matter what T-Bag had said about Michael's ability to lie with his voice, she'd just KNOWN he was being truthful last night. That he meant every word. Every last one.

Didn't he deserve a chance to explain? They weren't pressing charges against Sara; she could, if she felt so inclined, quit her job. Do something crazy. Chase after Michael Scofield. Find her answers. She could.

She thought of Michael. Of his face, those beautiful eyes, that smile that she only saw every once in a while, his perfect jaw line. She thought of his body, covered in tattoos…such an enigma, that a structural engineer would be covered in tattoos of angels and demons battling. Perhaps it fit him better than she had once thought, though.

She could do this. Could take a chance, and see if he was really who she thought he was. Because although her sensible side told her this was completely crazy, and that she needed to slap herself…

…her heart told her to go for it.

And when was the last time Sara had listened to her heart? Maybe it was about time.


	50. Chapter 50

Michael got up early the next morning. He hadn't slept at all, despite his attempts to lay still all night. He just couldn't do it. So instead, he'd spent the night listening to Sucre's breathing and Lincoln's soft snores, staring at the ceiling until he could remember the patterns of all the dots. Anything was better than thinking about what he'd told his brother, and Sucre. He could never take that back. It was just out there, and they knew it now. And they didn't know that there was more to know. He wasn't sure he'd ever tell, honestly. Last night had been hell. And yet, in some ways, that was the easy part. That was the part that wasn't his fault.

He woke up Lincoln and Sucre before getting into the shower. Once he did, he understood why they had showered until the hot water had ran nearly cold the night before. It was so nice, to be able to shower in privacy, with shampoo and body wash, without feeling other's eyes watching you…he'd never, ever take that for granted again.

When Michael finally got out of the shower because the water was starting to cool, he heard Lincoln saying goodbye to LJ. "Did you talk to Veronica too?" Michael asked, sticking his face and arm out of the doorway.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "So we're gonna toss the phone?"

"Just a second," Michael replied. "I've got one more call to make."

Lincoln raised his eyebrows, but lobbed the phone at his brother. "Better keep it quick, bro. We got to get going."

Michael nodded and ducked completely back into the bathroom, dialing the numbers he'd been careful not to wash off his wrist. He didn't think Sara would still be home; she was usually at work by seven. He figured he'd leave a message on her machine and then toss the phone.

He held the phone between his bare shoulder and his ear, balancing on one foot, trying to step into a clean pair of blue jeans. The floor was slippery under his bare feet, and his lack of sleep and two missing toes didn't make balancing any easier. He swore as he tipped to the side and his hip struck the wall hard, right over a healing bruise.

"Hello?" Sara's voice said into his ear.

"Shit. Sara?" he said, freezing. "I thought you'd be at work already."

"No," she said. There was a long pause as Michael tugged his jeans on and tried to figure out how to explain his awkward greeting. "I want to meet you," Sara said finally, her voice soft and unsure.

"What?"" Michael said, stopping dead again. "What do you mean?" He gave up on buttoning his jeans and held the phone in one hand, bracing himself against the counter with the other.

"I quit my job," Sara replied. She sounded shy. "I decided…I decided that I was going to listen to my heart. For once."

Michael didn't know what to say. Was she serious? Or could this be a trap, set up by the police or worse, government goons? One thing he did know was that once he was in Panama, the United States cops couldn't get to him, or Lincoln, or Sucre…and as long as they committed no crimes on their way down, the Panamanian cops wouldn't have any interest in them either.

"You're serious," Michael said.

"Yeah," Sara said. She sounded kind of surprised. "Yeah. I am."

Michael let out a breath. "Okay, then," he said. "When we get where we are going, I'll call you and tell you where to meet us." It was the only plan he could think of that didn't have much opportunity for double-crossing. He trusted Sara…but only to a point. There were some things she still needed to prove. And the first was that she wasn't going to try to turn him, Lincoln, or Sucre in.

"When you get there?" Sara asked. "Why can't you tell me now, so I can be there when you arrive?"

Michael chuckled. "Because, Sara. Phone lines can be tapped." And your intentions could be less than honorable. "No. You're going to have to trust me, okay?"

He could practically hear her nod. "Okay," she said after a long moment. "I'm going to give you my cell phone number, all right?"

"Yes," Michael said. "Shoot."

She told it to him, and he wrote it neatly in the steam on the mirror. "I've got it," he said. "Next time we have a phone, I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah," she said. "Be careful, Michael. Tell Sucre and Lincoln I said hello."

Michael bit back a grin, even though she couldn't see him. "Okay, Sara," he said. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Goodbye," she said.

"Bye," Michael replied. He hung up and buttoned his jeans and yanked on a clean tee shirt. "Okay, guys, let's go," he said, stepping out into the main room in bare feet.

Sucre looked at him, and grinned. "You called her again, didn't you Papi?" he asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Where's Linc?"

"He's out in the car already," Sucre said. "Dying to get moving."

Michael quickly pulled on a pair of socks and slipped on his tennis shoes again, being careful of his missing toes. "He's right," Michael said. "Let's go."

Sucre took a step towards the door, and suddenly, Michael remembered something. "Just a second," he said, grabbing a pen off the dresser. He dashed back into the bathroom and wrote Sara's quickly fading cell phone number on the inside of his wrist, just above her other phone number.

"You comin', Papi?" Sucre called.

Michael dropped the pen onto the counter. "Let's go," he said.

The two men walked out of the motel room and into the parking lot. It was still early morning; a little past 7:30 AM. The sun was already up, but still young.

"You want shotgun?" Sucre asked.

"You take it," Michael said. He got into the backseat of the car and rolled down the window.

"Finally. I thought you were gonna take all day," Lincoln complained.

"Shut up and drive," Sucre said. Lincoln shot him a look. "Just kidding, ese," Sucre said, putting his hands up.

Michael wiped the telephone off on his sweater, and threw it out onto the highway. "Come on, guys," he said. "It's still a lot of hours until we get close to the border."

"The border?" Sucre said. "And then what? It's not easy to get over the border without someone noticing, Papi."

"I know," Michael said. "We've got a connection with a Coyote. And we need to be there by tonight. So we've really got to move today."

He saw Lincoln shake his head. "Guess it's gonna be a long day."

Michael sighed. "You have no idea," he replied quietly. His stomach already hurt, from dread. He knew Lincoln's temporary subject drop could not be mistaken for the real thing…and the last thing Michael wanted to do was talk any more about life before. He'd left it in the past for a reason—he wanted it to stay there.

He leaned his head back against the seat. If he could fall asleep, Lincoln wouldn't wake him to talk. He couldn't sleep forever, of course…but even a couple of hours would be better than nothing


	51. Chapter 51

He took the bill the man offered him and shoved it into his shoe. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Come here, pretty boy," the man replied. "Take off your shirt; let me get a look at you."

Michael pulled off his shirt, trying not to think. The man's eyes ran over his thin frame, looking at his bony ribs, the bruises on his body. "Who gave you the bruises, anyway boy?" the man asked, pulling Michael closer.

"Nobody," Michael lied. Lincoln had been so angry with him last night, and he'd been so drunk that Michael had been afraid of him. He'd only shoved him; the bruises came from everything he'd hit when he fell.

The man laughed, his hands roaming over Michael's pale chest. "Sure. I didn't see a pimp; you got one?"

Michael shook his head and turned his head, initiating a kiss. He hated the sex, but he hated talking more. The man eagerly pushed his tongue into Michael's mouth, and Michael let him. He tried not to think of it. Tried to think of that day, on the beach, with his mother and his brother and the sand…

"Hey, pretty boy. Answer me." He was brought back from his oasis with a soft slap to the face. It didn't hurt; it was more of a pat than anything, but it did surprise him.

"Yeah?" Michael said, forcing his eyes to focus.

"You do that kind of kinky shit, huh?" the man asked, pulling off Michael's pants and running his hands over Michael's legs. Michael kept his face from registering his confusion.

"Kinky shit?" Michael echoed, his stomach twisting. No, no, no, no, no...he'd barely healed from the last time someone had decided to hurt him.

The man slapped him again. Hard this time. He fell backwards onto the bed, too surprised to even make noise.

"Yeah," the guy said, panting slightly. "You like it when daddy does that?"

This time, Michael flinched when the man hit him again, and threw his hands up. "Not the face, please," he said. After that first hit, he'd known better than to think he could say no, he didn't do that kind of kinky thing. Now he just hoped he could shift it so Lincoln wouldn't see his bruises. Lincoln thought he was working at a vet clinic to help with the bills; it was a hard ruse to keep up if he came home black and blue. There could only be so many big, out of control Saint Bernard puppies to blame for black eyes and odd scratches.

"Why not?" the man asked. "Thought you didn't have a pimp." He was taunting him now, but he grabbed Michael's arm and flipped him roughly onto his stomach, slapping his ass.

"I don't," Michael said. He gasped as the man hit him again. "But I do have a brother."

The man stopped for a second. "Brother know you're turning tricks?"

Michael bit his lip. Lincoln didn't know. And he never would. The silence stretched, until Michael just wanted to jump up and run. He just wanted this to be over. He squirmed, but the man had his arm pinned behind his back, making it an exercise in futility. Well, Michael knew how to get this over with.

"Please, daddy," he whispered, his face reddening slightly. "What do you want from me?"

The man slapped him again. "You've been a very bad boy, haven't you?"

"Yes sir," Michael whispered, his ears flaming now. He was disgusted with himself. Really, he deserved this treatment; every slap, every brutal word, everything. He was trash. A whore. Selling himself for money. And this wasn't like when he was 15 and starving. No, this was two years and so many tricks later he couldn't keep track.

But Lincoln kept getting sent back and forth to lockup, and the bills still had to be paid, and Michael still had to eat, and all those things. And Michael knew that if he got sent to another foster home, it was likely his new foster parent or parents would want a piece of him too—they always had, it seemed. And he didn't get any kind of compensation for that. So this was better, wasn't it? Life had no mercy just because you happened to be young and broke and in a shitty situation. He had to do something.

A particularly hard wrench of his arm made Michael cry out in pain. "You like it, you little slut," the man said. "I know your type. Pretty boys like you, with the innocent faces? They always like it when I play rough."

Michael's eyes filled with tears as the next harsh slap landed on his ass. "No!" he cried. "NO! Stop it! You can have your money back, just stop!" he begged. He didn't want to do this.

"Oh no," the man replied. "I paid for you, and I'm gonna have my fun. You can pretend you don't want it all you want, boy—I kinda like it that way."

And then the man was taking off his belt, and Michael was screaming, not sure if he was going to beat him or tie him up, but knowing either one would be bad, and he was begging, "NO! NO! PLEASE!" at the top of his lungs, praying that someone would interfere, even though he'd been in this hotel plenty of times, and knew it wasn't the case. He fought against the man's restraining hand, struggling with everything he had. "NO! STOP! PLEASE!" he cried. "PLEASE! I'LL DO WHAT YOU WANT!" Tears were coursing down his cheeks and soaking into the blankets as he struggled.

"Oh, baby," the man laughed. "You're already doing what I want."

"NO!" Michael screamed, panicking as the man's hands clamped on his arms. "NO! DON'T HURT ME!" His grip was supernaturally strong, it seemed.

"Michael!"

"NO!" he screamed again. "PLEASE! I'LL DO WHAT YOU WANT, PLEASE! DON'T !"

"Michael, wake up, man!"

"Wake up!" another voice cried, sounding panicky. "Please, wake up Papi!"

With a jolt, Michael burst into wakefulness. Lincoln's hands were on his arms; the car was at the side of the road. Michael was breathing heavily. He swallowed hard, feeling soreness in his throat and dampness on his cheeks.

"Michael?" Lincoln asked cautiously from his uncomfortable looking crouch half-inside the car door.

Michael nodded, still dazed from his dream. It had felt so real. Like he had been back there, in that hotel room, with that man. To this day, Michael remembered that particular trick. He'd never forget; that was when he'd known with 100 certainty: he was trash. Because he'd never felt so worthless and dirty and just plain wrong in his life.

"Papi, you awake now, man?" Sucre asked. He had turned around in the front seat and was watching Michael with wide eyes. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the worn headrest of his seat.

Michael nodded again. "Sorry," he whispered hoarsely. He could feel his face heating up with embarrassment, and he ducked his head, swiping awkwardly at the tears with his sweatshirt sleeve without dislodging Lincoln's grip. "Better keep driving, Linc. We have a long way to go still." He cleared his throat, desperately trying to rid himself of the " I've been screaming" voice.

Sucre and Lincoln shot each other a look. "No way, man. Obviously, you need to—"

"We need to get to the meeting place on time," Michael said. "If Coyote leaves without us, we're fucked. So don't tell me what I need." Michael jerked away from Lincoln's hands on his arms. "Drive the fucking car." He coughed, trying to clear the rasp from his throat.

"Michael, you don't get to start screaming like that and then, when we finally get you to wake the fuck up, pretend that everything's fine," Lincoln replied, his volume rising on every word. "Obviously, you're not fine, Michael!" He grabbed him again.

"I'm not pretending—"

"Don't tell me that—"

"It doesn't matter!" Michael countered again.

"Bullshit!" Lincoln hissed. "Don't fucking lie to me! Screaming, 'Don't hurt me!' and 'I'll do what you want' and—" His voice had raised a little, unconsciously mimicking a younger Michael. Michael winced.

"Stop it!" he yelled.

"You can have your money back, just don't—" Lincoln continued ruthlessly, his eyes wild. The words tore at Michael's heart. Did Lincoln even know what he was echoing? 

"I said STOP!" Michael yelled, pulling away. He covered his face with his hands. His heart was pounding, and his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He pushed them back, refusing to look at his brother. The silence was heavy.

"Michael…" Lincoln said, after a long, long time. He sounded contrite now; Michael spared him a glance. His face was twisted with pain and anger and regret. "Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Okay," Michael said, deliberately keeping his voice as calm as he could "Okay. I'm not fine. But this conversation's gonna have to wait. Because the Coyote? He won't. Wait, I mean." He still didn't look at Lincoln. His words echoed in his ears: 'You can have your money back…' He wondered if Lincoln would put it together.

"How do you even know this guy's waiting?" Sucre interrupted, sounding like he'd been desperate for a place to interject something, anything, to break the tension. "I mean, why would he do you a favor like that? You don't seem like the type who'd really be friends with a coyote, Papi."

"We have a deal," Michael replied, grateful for the subject change. "And there's a stop we have to make on the way. So drive, damn it!"

Lincoln still looked like he felt guilty, and for once, Michael was glad. It would keep him driving, and would keep him from poking at Michael's open wounds any more.

There had been a reason Michael had held this secret to himself for so long. He'd kept it under wraps for so long that it rarely bothered him; it rarely broke into his conscious mind. Occasionally, he'd think about it…when he saw a certain type of kid on the street that he just knew was trying to make money, or later, in Fox River, when he'd see that glint in the eyes of another inmate…when T-Bag had taunted and tormented him, he'd think about it. But he'd managed to push it away again, and not let it out. He'd never woken up screaming.

Now his nightmare had seen some air…and it wanted more. It wanted out. It was everywhere, tainting him, creeping into every corner of his mind and body, infiltrating his thoughts. That sickness, that dirtiness that he'd never felt like he could wash off…it was back. He rubbed his arms, desperately wishing for another chance to shower.

"Drive," he said again to Lincoln, his voice cold. He felt a little bit of relief as Lincoln put the car into drive and pulled back onto the road. He pretended not to notice Lincoln's eyes in the rearview mirror, looking at him over and over. Or Sucre, muttering under his breath in Spanish and occasionally crossing himself. He felt so wrong. This felt so wrong, to be with his brother, and Sucre, two men who were more or less normal in abnormal circumstances. And then there was Michael. Who was the cause of this abnormality. His fault. All his fault.

If he didn't owe them so much, he'd just let it go. He'd just retreat, leave, never come back. But he knew they wouldn't make it out of the country without him; neither of them were the brightest. Sucre was goodhearted, and Lincoln was tough, but Michael had to be the brains. So he stayed.

He stayed quiet in the backseat, only speaking occasionally to tell Lincoln to turn, to take another road, to keep going straight.

"We're running low on gas," Lincoln said several hours later, "and I need to take a piss."

"Me too, ese," Sucre said.

Michael bit lightly at his lower lip and looked at his watch. It wasn't quite noon yet. "We can stop," he said. "We're a little bit ahead of schedule."

Lincoln pulled into a gas station. Michael dug into the trash bag and pulled out three baseball caps and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. "Wear these," he said, handing Sucre and Lincoln each a cap. "And don't let the cameras get a good look at you."

Michael put on the glasses and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head.

"You look like that wigger kid from Fox River," Lincoln said, his mouth tipping into a smirk.

"Better to look like him than to look like me," Michael replied, opening the car door. "Get gas first," he said.

""I'm not an idiot, Michael," Lincoln said.

"Coulda fooled me," Michael said, smirking. He walked away before Lincoln could answer. Distraction was good. If he could distract Lincoln and Sucre…maybe he could distract himself.

Inside the store, Michael used the bathroom and bought some food; granola bars, beef jerky, and some coffee. He had decided many miles ago that he could not sleep again, not while Lincoln and Sucre were around. Not with the nightmarish memories his brain was conjuring up. Just because Lincoln hadn't put together Michael's words with Michael's actions…well, even a blind pig could find an apple occasionally.

Michael did not want Lincoln to be that proverbial blind, apple-finding pig.

The cashier didn't seem to take any interest in him at all; he counted out his change sloppily. "Have a good day," he said.

Michael nodded, and went back out to the car. Sucre was settled in passenger seat again, and Lincoln said, "I'm gonna run in and pay and get some stuff."

Michael nodded and leaned against the car, watching his brother walk into the store. As soon as the door closed, he grinned and jumped behind the wheel of the car.

"What are you doing, Papi?" Sucre asked.

"Where are the keys?" Michael asked.

"Linc's got 'em," Sucre said.

Michael turned to Sucre. "You know how to hotwire a car, right?"

"Yeah," Sucre said slowly, quirking his eyebrows. Michael grinned.

"Hurry up. Let's get it running."


	52. Chapter 52

Lincoln stepped outside the door, holding a plastic bag filled with groceries. He started towards the car.

"What the fuck?" he cried, putting his hand up to shield his eyes. Completely unnecessary, what with the baseball cap, but he couldn't help it. It was habit; it had been a long time since he'd worn a baseball cap. But shielding his eyes didn't change the sight in front of him.

The car was gone.

Desperately, he broke into a jog. What the hell…where was the car? And Michael and Sucre? He patted his pocket, feeling for the keys.

They were still there, heavy weight in his pocket. Well, what the hell?

A million scenarios popped into his head, one after the other. All equally implausible, all terrifying. He hadn't been in there long enough for them to get towed…and surely Michael would have gotten him…but if the cops had seen them…but he would have heard sirens…and anyway, how would they have started the car? Could it have just rolled away? The brakes had seemed the slightest bit squeaky, now that he thought about it…but that still didn't explain why Michael and Sucre were gone. They had legs; they could get out of the car and walk back.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Guys! What the hell?"

Nothing. He looked around; there wasn't another car in the parking lot. Not unusual; they were at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

"Michael?" he called. "Where the fuck are you?" He whirled around, looking for any clue. Nothing. He didn't see anything. His heart started to pound faster. What was this, the fucking Twilight Zone or something?

Suddenly, he heard the roar of a car engine. Despite himself, Lincoln jumped. His bag of groceries went flying in the air.

Michael and Sucre were laughing as they roared around the corner of the store, coming into view. Michael swerved to avoid hitting either Lincoln or his groceries, but he didn't slow. Lincoln gritted his teeth. That shit! He was going to kill him!

He ran after the car, the groceries forgotten. "You better stop, you fucker!" he hollered, waving his hands in the air like a lunatic.

"I don't know," Michael cried out the window, pulling a donut. "Might be kind of fun to just let you run—" Lincoln saw Sucre cross himself with a sideways look at Michael; apparently, he hadn't expected that kind of crazy driving.

Lincoln jumped in front of the car, and predictably, Michael slammed on the brakes. "Get your ass out of the car, Michael," he yelled, slamming both hands on the hood like he meant business.

"Don't think so," Michael replied, still grinning. Obviously, Lincoln's 'serious-voice' wasn't making an impact. Lincoln shook his head. He would be pissed, but honestly, he was too glad to see Michael smiling again to complain about the how. Even if he had been mere moments from a heart attack.

"You better not have ruined my Pringles," Lincoln grumbled, walking around to the side of the car. He scooped up his bag of groceries, which had ripped open when it hit the pavement.

"They're in a can, Papi. They're made for contact sports," Sucre called, grinning.

"Yeah, contact sports. I'm gonna fucking beat you with this can of Pringles if you don't shut up," he warned, brandishing the dented tin threateningly as he got into the backseat of the car.

"You talk tough now, but you jumped like a little girl when we came 'round that corner," Sucre replied, still smirking.

"Yeah, Linc, that was an impressive jump," Michael said, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road again. "You been practicing that?"

"You are this fucking close to getting your ass kicked, Michael," Lincoln said, leaning forward and bopping Michael on the leg with the dented can of Pringles, hard enough that the can bent more. "Don't think I won't!"

"You're going to break it," Michael said, "and this whole car is gonna smell like Pringles for the rest of the trip!" Lincoln could still hear the laughter in Michael's voice. He was glad for it; after last night and that strange, screaming nightmare this morning, they needed all the laughter they could get.

"I'm gonna break you if you don't shut the fuck up," Lincoln replied, trying to sound serious again, and failing miserably.

Sucre shook his head. "You two sound like you're about eight years old right now," he said, biting at his lower lip. "With a mouth your mama would smack you for!" Lincoln could tell he was trying not to laugh. He shook his head.

"I can break you too, Sucre," Lincoln said, but his mouth twitched a little, like he wanted to smile. He was losing this fight, and he knew it.

"Is that a threat, Sink?" Sucre asked, trying to stifle his laughter. "You threatening me? 'Cause I will take you down. With my bare hands! You're just a gatito!"

Michael let out a low, mocking whistle. "Hitting below the belt now, are we?" he asked.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Lincoln asked. "You should speak English, man!"

"He called you a pussy," Michael translated, with a certain amount of glee. Sucre laughed when he saw the look on Lincoln's face.

"Oh yeah?" Lincoln replied. "This from the guy who uses words like passion to propose to his girlfriend in a note—"

"How the hell did you hear about that?" Sucre yelped, turning to look at Michael. Michael shook his head.

"Wasn't me, man," he said.

"You can thank your cousin Manche for that," Lincoln replied. "That boy loves to talk, you know that?"

"Si, I know that," Sucre said. "But she said yes, didn't she? Despite your loco hermano's attempts to scare her off with big words—"

"You were the one who went for it," Michael defended himself, smirking. "And passion's not a big word."

"Yeah it is. It's got like," Sucre started counting on his fingers, "seven letters in it. That's a big word!"

"You've got to be kidding me," Lincoln said. "Please tell me you're kidding me?"

"I ain't kidding," Sucre said seriously. "Count it yourself."

Michael burst out laughing as Lincoln clapped his palm to his forehead.

"Just stop," Lincoln said, shaking his head . "Really." Michael kept chuckling.

"I don't get it," Sucre said, looking between Michael and Lincoln with a confused expression on his face. "What are you laughing at?"


	53. Chapter 53

Michael's eyelids were twitching. "You want me to drive, Papi?" Sucre asked, concerned. He'd never seen Michael look so tired.

Michael stifled a yawn. "Yeah, okay," he said. Sucre was surprised at the lack of protest, but he barely waited until Michael parked the car to jump out.

"I still can't believe you knew how to get a Coyote, Michael ," Lincoln said as Sucre settled into the driver's seat. "You know, that's just not the kind of stuff you'd think you'd learn at Loyola."

"You'd be surprised," Michael replied. "Come on. We have to make it to that seven mile marker on route four before sunset. Keep moving."

"Seriously? You learned that at Loyola?" Sucre asked. "I thought that was like, a school for rich kids."

"It is," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, and me," Michael said. "That school got us into this mess in the first place. If you hadn't borrowed that money—"

"Well, it's gonna get us out of this mess, too," Lincoln said.

"Wait, what?" Sucre asked, hitting the gas.

"It's a long story," Lincoln said, leaning back against the seat of the car.

"It's a long road, too, Papi," Sucre said. "You could tell it."

"We're running out of time," Michael said, looking out the window to the horizon. "We need to get to that mile marker well before that plane does, and get ready to go. The coyote said it only stays on the ground for five minutes."

"I don't even like flying," Sucre said. "It's not natural. If we were supposed to fly, we'd have wings, man."

"It's the only way to get across the border without any kind of interference. They get drugs across; they can get us across." Michael's voice sounded sure, almost bored.

"Wait. If they're taking us, what about the drugs? That's a big profit loss," Lincoln remarked.

"We're paying handsomely for this flight," Michael said. "It's not that easy to get medical grade nitroglycerine…and the pilot's gonna see some major money too."

"We're the drugs?" Sucre asked, not sure what he thought of the idea.

"On this flight, we are," Michael replied.

"Well, you're a hit I know a particular doctor would certainly like to take," Lincoln said, grinning. The double entendre didn't go over Sucre's head, or Michael's either, from the way he blushed. "You did call her this morning, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did," Michael said.

"And?" Sucre asked. Now that his girl problems were more or less solved, he wanted to see Michael and Lincoln's resolved too. It was the romantic in him, he guessed.

"She said to say hello to you both," he said, grinning.

"What?" Sucre asked, confused. "She don't even know me. We talked, like, once, when one of the 'Woods split my lip."

"She wants to meet us," Michael said.

"What did you say to that?" Lincoln asked, leaning forward, his forearms resting on the backs of Sucre and Michael's seats. "Please tell me you were smart, Michael."

"I'm always smart," Michael said, yawning again.

"Not always," Sucre and Lincoln said in unison. Sucre could think of a few times when he'd been anything but smart in Fox River…

"I told her that once we'd arrived, I'd send for her," Michael said.

"Really?" Lincoln asked.

"More or less. Without the strange, Jane Austen-ish way of talking," Michael replied, rubbing at his eyes.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked. "You sound kind of…loopy. Like that one time when you were six and drank half a bottle of that cough medicine and Mom had to call Poison Control. "

"It tasted like grapes," Michael replied nonsensically.

"Grapes on crack. That stuff tastes like shit," Lincoln said.

"Don't worry; there's no cough syrup involved this time. I'm just tired. I didn't sleep much last night."

The car fell into dead silence. Sucre thought of earlier, of Michael's whimpers…which had turned to cries…which had become screams. He'd never seen anyone have a nightmare like that before. On the inside, Michael's nightmares had been tame compared to that. He'd made some noise in his sleep, talked a little…but those screams earlier had been so loud. Like he was screaming for his life. Awake, Michael kept such tight control over himself…but everyone was vulnerable when they slept.

"Take a right here," Michael said. Sucre flipped on the turn signal, still thinking about earlier.

There was still so much he didn't know about Michael Scofield. Which made sense, if he thought about it. They hadn't known each other that long; it just felt like forever. Somehow, it felt like this guy was his primo, like they'd grown up together. In reality, it had been a month. Almost exactly a month. Which wasn't that much time at all.

Sucre looked in the rearview mirror, shooting a glance at Lincoln. Lincoln had known Michael his whole life…and he seemed almost as lost as Sucre. Like all this stuff he was hearing, he was hearing for the first time too. Not just the obvious stuff, about what had happened to Michael as a kid, but like everything Michael said was just a little bit foreign to him.

Maybe he was. Maybe no one really knew Michael Scofield. He glanced over at Michael, who was staring intently out the window, frantically tapping his fingers against his knees. He'd never known anyone who could keep a secret like him, that was for sure.

Or a thousand.

"This is it," Michael said. "The seven mile marker. Route 4."

Sucre pulled to the side of the road. "Into the ditch," Michael directed, looking all around them. There didn't appear to be anything to see.

"What?" Sucre said. "Man, there's no way we'll get this car out of that ditch again!"

"We won't have to," Michael replied. "Come on. Drive into the ditch."

Sucre shrugged. "All part of the plan, right Papi?" he asked, putting the car in drive again.

"All part of the plan," Michael echoed.

The men exited the car. "Take the bag, Linc," Michael said, tossing the backpack full of cash at Sucre. "We'll need it."

"Do we really need all those clothes, Papi? We can buy some stuff in Mexico," Sucre said, putting the pack on his shoulders.

"Take the bag," Michael repeated. Lincoln grabbed it and threw it over his shoulder, starting to walk away from the road.

"Where's the plane?" Sucre asked, walking after Lincoln. "I don't see anything that one could land on, even."

"It's not quite sunset yet," Michael replied. He looked down at the watch strapped to his wrist. "Keep walking; I'll be there in a second."

Sucre turned to Lincoln for an explanation; Lincoln just shrugged. "Keep walking," he said. Sucre heard the noise of an engine and looked up to see a small plane coming in for a landing about a quarter of a mile ahead of them.

They'd gotten about thirty feet away from the car when Michael came running up behind them. "What the fuck, Papi?" Sucre asked. "Why're you running?"

A loud explosion came from the ditch, making Lincoln and Sucre both jump. "I had to set off the bomb," Michael panted. "No one will be looking for us after that. Hopefully."

"What?" Sucre asked. Michael kept running.

"Come on. I'll explain once we're on that plane!"


	54. Chapter 54

Maricruz picked up the phone from her end table. Only one person could be calling her at this crazy hour. "Theresa?" she said, expecting to hear her familiar voice, telling her again that she was crazy and foolish and so many things. She couldn't help it; she was in love. Her mother had always said that love was blind, but she knew better. Love was just smart enough to look past all those things, and see what was really there.

"Baby, what is it with you thinking I'm Theresa?" Fernando's voice came through her phone, slightly staticky, but most definitely his. "Should I be worried?" His voice was teasing.

"Oh my God, baby! It's you!" Maricruz cried, jumping to her feet.

"Yeah, it's me, mami," he said. "You ready to come meet me?" She could hear the excitement in his voice, like a boy on Christmas morning.

"I've been waiting to hear those words for so long," she replied. "Does this mean you've made it?"

"Shh, shh, mami," he said. "Don't shriek; you're breaking my eardrums."

"Sorry," she whispered. "I thought you liked it when I shrieked," she teased.

"Well, mi amor, in some situations," Fernando said back, his voice low. She giggled.

"Where are you, baby?" She plopped back down onto her couch, propping her feet on her coffee table..

"Mexico," he said, pronouncing it the Spanish way.

"Really?" she cried.

She heard his excitement again in his voice. "Yeah. We landed half an hour ago."

"Are you at the airport?" she asked.

Fernando chuckled. "Um…not exactly."

Suddenly, Maricruz heard a loud MOOO in the background. "Baby, is that a cow?" she asked, confused.

"Si, it's a cow, mami. I think Lincoln's trying to play tag or something…"

Maricruz shook her head. "Okay…why is there a cow, honey?"

"We didn't exactly land at an airport. We're in a field somewhere. I'm not sure where exactly; the pilot didn't say, and Michael's a little busy trying to find the car he was supposed to have hidden here a few months ago. Personally, I think it's gotta be gone—I ain't the only person who knows how to hotwire a—" Fernando cut himself off.

"I thought you said you'd stopped doing that, 'Nando!" Maricruz protested. "Baby, that's gonna get you in trouble!"

"I'm already in trouble, mami. We broke out of prison, remember?" She could hear amusement in his voice. "And I've seen posters with our faces on them everywhere we stopped between here and Chicago, practically. Takin' a car's gonna be the least of my problems if I get caught!"

"'Nando…" Maricruz scolded gently.

"We have to get moving somehow, baby," he replied logically.

"Yes, but still," Maricruz said, biting lightly at her lower lip.

"Listen, baby. We're gonna try to get to the airport in Mexico City in a day or so. Although, if Michael can't find the damn car, it could be longer. Hang on a second." He covered the receiver of the phone, but she heard him yell, "Papi, it's not gonna be sitting in the middle of a fucking field in Mexico for months without someone trying to—"

Maricruz heard another male voice yell something else back, but she couldn't make it out. Finally, she heard Fernando's voice again, this time speaking to her. "Can you get there by then?"

"I can try," she replied. "I'll do my best."

"Can you leave tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," Maricruz said, praying it was true. "Yes. I'm going to pack right now, and leave for the airport. I'm gonna call Theresa to drive me."

"Okay. I've got to give the pilot his phone back now, mami. Be safe," Fernando said. She could practically see his smile, the sparkle in his eyes. "I love you, Maricruz."

"I love you too, Fernando," she said. '

"Bye, baby," he said.

"Bye," she replied. She hung up the phone and got to her feet, dialing Theresa's number from memory.

"Hello?" Theresa picked up on the third ring, sounding a little bleary.

"Theresa? I need a ride," Maricruz said.

"What? Mari, it's 11:00 at night! I'm just about ready to go to bed!" Theresa sounded thoroughly irritated, but Maricruz ploughed on.

"You've got to take me to the airport, Theresa. I'm meeting 'Nando," she said.

"What? Chica, you're crazy! He's a wanted man! They've put a number on his head!" Theresa's voice had risen several octaves. "You could get charged with, with…aiding and abetting a criminal or something! Are you nuts?"

"I love him, Theresa. I'm having his baby. We're getting married. And I might not be coming back for awhile. So either you drive me and say goodbye, or you don't get to, 'cause I'll get there if I have to walk!" Maricruz kept her voice firm. She meant every single word.

There was a silence on the other end, followed by a string of curses. "Mari, I could kill you. All right, get ready. I'll be over in twenty minutes."

"Thank you so much, Theresa!"

"We'll see if you're thanking me when I'm visiting your ass in jail! You both are crazy in the head!" There was a loud click, followed by a dial tone.

Maricruz dropped the phone and ran into her bedroom, pulling her suitcase out from under her bed. She'd just take what was most important; Theresa could figure out what to do with the rest of her stuff. And maybe Mama could take some of it too…she'd leave that up to Theresa.

She frantically threw clothing into her suitcase, shorts, jeans, tank tops, tee shirts. A sweatshirt; she didn't think it really was cold in Mexico, but hey, what did she know? She'd only been there once before, for her great grandma's funeral when she was eight. She remembered hearing a lot of Spanish, and understanding very, very little. She'd never really learned much at all…

Well, she'd have all the time in the world, now. Just her and Fernando, and their baby…she put her hand on her stomach. It didn't look any different yet; she always checked, every time she passed a mirror. The doctor had told her that generally it would take a few months before the baby would start to show. A few months. That had been a couple weeks ago; the doctor had thought she'd been pregnant for nearly two months already. So soon, the baby would start to show. It was an exciting prospect.

And she and Fernando would be together. Married. Finally. It was what she'd been dreaming about for nearly two and a half years.

She tossed two pairs of flip flops into her suitcase, a journal, and a photo album. All things considered, this wasn't so bad. Run away to Mexico, get married, have a baby, live happily ever after? It was like a dream…a really, really strange one, but one with a happy ending.

And Maricruz was a sucker for happy endings


	55. Chapter 55

"Face the facts, Papi. It's gone."

"No," Michael said. "No. It can't be gone. It' can't!" He twisted his arm around, desperately trying to read the code on his triceps. "I must have read it wrong or something. Look at this for me, would you?" He could hear the desperation in his own voice. "This is the wrong barn, or something!"

"Michael, it's pitch black in here," Lincoln said. "We can't see anything anyway. How would we know?"

Michael knew, though. He knew this was the right barn. And the car wasn't here. But it couldn't be. Couldn't be. Please, God, it couldn't be.

Michael shook his head, still trying to make out the outlines of his tattoo in the dark, like it would tell him that it couldn't be. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" he yelled, punching the air with frustration. It was too dark to read the tattoo, and he knew the information it would say anyway. "We need to get in that car tonight and get driving."

"It's not going to happen, Michael," Lincoln said. "There's no car. All three of us are too damn tired to drive even if the car was there; you were the only one who got any sleep in the car anyway."

Michael winced. He didn't want his brother to talk about that. Ever again, if he could help it. "We need to keep moving," he said.

"We're beat, man," Sucre said. "Come on, you gotta be just as tired as we are."

Michael was tired. He was exhausted; he could practically feel the bags forming under his eyes. But he couldn't afford to sleep. Not after that nightmare earlier. Not after what he'd screamed in his sleep. Hearing Lincoln echo his pleas for the man to take back his money and leave him alone had been more painful than when Abruzzi cut off his toes, no contest.

"We can't sleep, Sucre. We have to find the car," Michael said. "I specifically had it left in this barn!" He pointed angrily around them, at the dilapidated shack that passed for a barn.

"We looked, Michael. There's nothing in there except hay," Lincoln replied tiredly. "There's no car!"

"It's gone, muchacho," Sucre said. "How long ago did you have the car put there?"

"Two months ago," Michael mumbled, worn out.

Sucre shook his head. "It was probably gone weeks and weeks ago, Papi. Think logically. You know it's true." Michael could hear how he was pleading with him.

Michael crouched down to the barn's dirt floor, his fingertips brushing hay. He could feel more angry tears coming up behind his eyes, and he fought them back. It was just because he was tired, that he was driven to tears so easily. Tired, and frustrated, and not sure what to do. The car wasn't here. They'd searched the barn, searched around it; gotten nothing.

"Listen, Michael," Lincoln said. "Let's just get some sleep here, and we'll start walking tomorrow. We're all tired, and we're not gonna make it very far or very fast if we're all stumbling around like we're drunk."

"You'd think you'd be good at that," Michael said angrily, a knee-jerk, asshole thing to say. Immediately, he regretted it. He heard Lincoln sigh.

"I'm staying here tonight. You gonna walk on without me?" Lincoln challenged.

Michael could feel Sucre watch them argue. He sighed, and dropped the backpack off his shoulders, allowing himself to sink into a seat in the hay.

"Okay, then," Lincoln said, as if Michael had responded verbally. "Come on. It's getting kind of cold. I didn't even know it got cold in Mexico."

"It gets cold at night everywhere," Sucre said. "Even the desert. I saw it on the Discovery channel once, when I was watching my cousin's kids."

"Watching your cousin's kids? Sure. Sounds like an excuse to me," Lincoln said.

Michael listened to them bicker good-naturedly at each other as he sat stiffly in the hay. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so damn tired. And he couldn't sleep. He couldn't. Because he couldn't trust himself. He couldn't trust his own body not to betray him, to scream or cry in his sleep, to say things that might help Lincoln or Sucre put two and two together.

He swore under his breath. All his life, he'd had such iron control over himself. He'd been emotional, but only when it was safe, only with people who he could trust. And while he knew he could trust Lincoln and Sucre…this was still his secret. And he didn't want it to get out. Before, he would have been able to hide it. But ever since he'd told them a little bit…

It was like the dam had broken. Things were leaking out, and the more he tried to dam it up again, the worse it seemed to explode. But the consequences of this, his last and biggest of secrets coming out into the open…

Michael didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think of the disgust, the disgrace, the anger, the repulsion he would see in their eyes. Because it was different. He knew, somewhere, that what had happened to him when he was ten had not been his fault. He couldn't have prevented it. No, the fact that he was so 'pretty' hadn't helped, but how he looked wasn't his fault, and it wasn't his fault that his foster father had had a thing for little boys. Michael had been blameless there.

But later? At fifteen? He'd chosen that. Yes, he'd been hungry and desperate, but he could have said no. And he hadn't. Or the next time…or the next. It had been easy money. Because he was a whore. A slut; that man had been right. They'd all been right. He might not have liked it, but he let them do it, and he took their money. That had been his fault. His choice; that's what he'd told himself at the time. It was still true, unfortunately.

"Michael? Anyone home?" Lincoln asked. Michael looked up. "Come on man. Any blankets in that plastic bag?"

Michael sighed and started digging through the trash bag he'd buried in that grave months before. "Just two," he said. "I didn't think there would be more than two of us."

"Well, it's just going over the hay anyway; that shit's prickly," Lincoln said.

Michael handed over two thin camping blankets, the kind designed to fold into a small square. "Here," he said. Lincoln took them.

"They unfold," Michael explained, to Lincoln's wordless eyebrow raise. "They take up less space than a typical blanket." He knew Lincoln didn't really care, but his mouth seemed determined to speak, whether or not he felt so inclined. Damn, he was tired.

Lincoln nodded. "Sucre," he called over his shoulder. "Catch!"

Sucre caught the tossed square quickly. ""Ése, what the fuck is this?" But he shook it and spread the blanket over a flattened pile of hay, plopping down into his newly created 'bed.'. "Not bad, Papi. It ain't the Hilton, but not bad."

"Probably more comfortable than the bunk at Fox River," Lincoln said. "At least your feet don't hang off the end."

"I never had that problem, ese," Sucre said. "Others, yes, but not that one."

"Where do you want to sleep, Michael?" Lincoln asked, turning back to Michael.

"Huh?" Michael said, deliberately being dense.

"Sleep? Unless you're planning on sharing Sucre's blanket…" Michael could see Lincoln consider saying something, and then stop himself. It made Michael's stomach hurt. Because Lincoln knew a little bit of Michael's story, he saw him as fragile. Thought if he made a tasteless joke about 'hanging a sheet' or something, that Michael would crumble. He had no fucking idea.

"I'm not sleeping, so it doesn't matter," Michael said blandly, staring at the wall of the barn in front of him. How could the car be gone? He understood it, but no. It just couldn't be. How could it?.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "You're practically sleeping now, Michael."

Michael didn't respond, his mind still on the car. It was gone. Not here. He'd paid to have it brought here…but it wasn't here. Nonsensically, the same sentences ran through his head over and over again. He blinked, his eyelids heavy.

He heard Lincoln walk away. The car. It made his brain hurt, to think of all the work he'd put into making sure the car would be here, would be at this particular barn, at this particular time. And it was gone. Of course. Did things ever quite work out how they were supposed to for Michael Scofield? He smirked a little in the darkness.

"Come on man," Lincoln said from where he'd put down the blanket, breaking into his reverie again. "Lay down."

"I'm not sleeping," Michael said again, more harshly.

"Stop being an asshole, Michael. You're going to be completely useless tomorrow if you don't sleep, and neither of us know the plan. Get it?" Lincoln's voice was just as harsh in the darkness.

Michael clenched his fists. Even as tired as he was, he could understand the sense in Lincoln's words. But he was afraid.

Afraid of those dreams. Afraid of what he might let slip, when he was unconscious, when he was asleep. He was afraid of waking up, screaming again, waking up to hear more of the horrors of his past being repeated from Lincoln's mouth.

"Michael," Lincoln said, and he sounded irritated, and tired, but familiarly so, "go to sleep."

Michael sighed and stood up, walking towards the blanket where Lincoln was laying, and sat down. "This conversation seems familiar," he mused, laying back against the camp blanket.

"Unfortunately so," Lincoln mumbled. "Like every single night you woke me up to save you from the monsters in your closet, and then didn't sleep."

Michael clenched his teeth, turning away from his brother. Yeah, like that. Like tonight.

But this was a monster his brother couldn't save him from….because it was a monster Michael never wanted him to know about.


	56. Chapter 56

Once again, Sara opened her suitcase and pulled out all the clothes she'd placed inside. Obviously, she was crazy. Obviously, Michael Scofield was never going to call her back. He obviously didn't trust her at all; and could she blame him? She had worked for the prison. Her father was the governor of Illinois; a pro-death penalty man who'd refused to grant any kind of clemency to Lincoln. If she was in his place, would she trust him?

She stared at the crumpled pile of jeans, shirts, bras, and underwear on her bedspread. She had already packed and unpacked all of these things five times. A few times, she'd been a little more practical, a few times, a little less. Sometimes, she thought all she was going to do when she saw Michael Scofield was slap him and tell him that she knew she should have stuck him in the whack shack since he was obviously crazy. And sometimes she thought all she would do when she saw Michael was jump in his arms and kiss him and…

She shook her head. Since she obviously wasn't going to see him, both of these little fantasies of hers would have to remain just that—fantasies. She bit at her lower lip slightly.

She wanted to talk to him, more than anything. She wanted to hear his voice, and to ask him questions. He'd said he loved her…did he really love her? Really? Could you really be in love with someone you'd only known for a month? And in such odd circumstances, too?

She always would have said no, before. Sara considered herself a very pragmatic woman. She would have said that in such a short period of time, the only thing you could feel for another human being was lust. And she'd felt that too…he really was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. But there was something else there, something that had nothing to do with sex.

Michael was dangerous…and yet something about him made her feel safer than she ever had in her life. Michael was secretive…and he made her want to tell him everything. Michael was a puzzle…and Sara just wanted to figure him out.

Sara sighed and picked up a pair of jeans, beginning to fold them again. She placed them neatly in the bottom of her suitcase and grabbed another.

She needed a little faith, that was all. So she was going to pack her suitcase and wait for him to call her, like some heroine out of a trashy novel. Shit.

Well, Sara had had a thing for trashy novels, back in her teens. They always had good ending, anyway. She folded another pair of jeans.

Her phone rang. Sara reached for it. Her father had said he'd call her sometime this morning with plans to meet for lunch; they had 'something to discuss.' She shook her head. She didn't even want to talk to him.

"Hello?" she said, her voice rather grumpy. She tucked the phone under her chin and started to fold a tee-shirt.

"Sara?"

Her heart stopped. She dropped the tee shirt to the bed and grabbed the phone. "Michael! It's you!" She knew she sounded delighted, and she didn't care. He could know; she'd been waiting for this call, damn it.

"You sound happy to hear from me," Michael said, and she heard slight amusement in his voice. She could practically see that little smirk he did sometimes, and she blushed. Jeez, she was like a schoolgirl with a crush!

'I am," Sara replied honestly. "Did you make it wherever you wanted to make it yet?" she asked.

Michael chuckled dryly. "Not exactly," he said. "There's been a…small quirk…in the plans."

Sara could hear that this "small quirk" wasn't really that small.

"How small of a quirk?" she asked.

"It's an issue of transportation," Michael said. "Right now, we have our two feet, and that's about it."

Sara thought of the three of them, trying to walk along any road in the country. No way they wouldn't get picked up by the cops; they were three distinctive looking men. She felt her stomach drop.

"So what are you going to do?" She could hear the anxiety in her own voice.

"Well…there's been a little bit of a change of plans," Michael said. He sounded strange, and Sara's stomach dropped again.

"Are you telling me I won't be able to meet you?" Sara asked, looking at the pile of clothing on her bed. She kept her voice flat, so he wouldn't hear the anger and disappointment there.

She heard Michael take a breath. "Can I trust you, Sara?" he asked.

She was surprised that he'd ask that straight out. "What do you mean, can you trust me?" she asked. "Michael, I quit my job. To follow my heart. Remember? And my heart, whether I like it or not, is in an undisclosed location right now!"

Shit. That sounded melodramatic. Sara shut her eyes.

"So, that's a yes?" Michael asked again, but she heard a teasing note in his voice this time.

"Yes, that's a yes," she replied.

She heard him sigh. "We're in Mexico," he said.

Her eyes popped wide open. "What! How the hell did you do that? They're still looking for you in Illinois!"

"Good," Michael replied. "It pays to be underestimated."

Sara wondered if Michael had ever not been underestimated.

"Listen, Sara. Mexico City, there's an airport, called AICM. Sucre is meeting Maricruz there; we can meet you there too. If you'd like." For once, she heard the slightest tinge of uncertainty in Michael's voice.

"I'll be there, Michael," she said.

"Pack lightly," he said. "Our travel arrangements are…uncertain."

"Lightly?" she questioned.

"Think backpack," he answered. "We've been walking all morning."

Sara raised her eyebrows, and looked at her suitcase again. Backpack. She didn't even own a backpack. "Okay," she said.

She heard him say, "Anyone got another coin?" in a muffled tone, and realized he must be covering the receiver.

Distantly, she could hear Lincoln and Sucre both say no, and Michael swore. Then he was talking to her again.

"Listen, I don't have any more change, so this call's going to end in a minute. I'll see you soon, Sara." Another breath. "Be safe, okay?"

"Okay," Sara hesitated. "I love you, Michael."

"I love you too," he replied.

Suddenly, there was a dial tone. Sara hung up reluctantly. She was going to Mexico. Was she crazy? Maybe.

She looked at her suitcase, and her gigantic pile of clothing. She needed to go shopping for a backpack, and pare down her clothing.

How had she ever doubted him? Suddenly, it was so obvious.


	57. Chapter 57

Lincoln watched as Michael dropped the payphone back into the cradle. "That was an expensive phone call," Lincoln said.

"I could have run and gotten more change," Sucre said, gesturing at the tiny store behind the men. "If you wanted."

"It's okay," Michael said. "We said everything important."

"Yeah…like 'love,' " Lincoln joshed good-naturedly, giving his brother's shoulder a bump with his own. He saw Michael grin, but he didn't say anything in response. Instead, he turned to Sucre.

"Any luck with the ride?" he asked.

"Papi, it's 9 in the morning. Ain't nobody here to give us a ride," Sucre said.

Lincoln looked around. It was true. This store was in the middle of nowhere; it had taken them two and a half hours to walk here from the barn where they'd slept, and that was at a pretty fast pace. He didn't see a single car.

"How'd the cashier even get here?" he asked.

"Lives here," Michael replied. Lincoln raised his eyebrow.

"I asked," he responded. "There's an apartment above the store."

Lincoln sighed. "Did you happen to ask where the nearest town was?" he asked.

"I did," Michael said. "It's about twenty miles that way." He gestured down the lone highway with one hand. "Looks like it's gonna be a long day's walk, guys."

Lincoln heard Sucre mumble something in Spanish. "What?"

"I'm sure you know the equivalent in English," Michael replied. "Come on. Let's go." He hitched the backpack up on his shoulders. Lincoln saw him wince slightly.

"Your shoulder still hurt where that nail--?"

"It's fine," Michael replied curtly. He started to walk. Lincoln sighed. He knew Michael didn't like him to bring up anything to do with what had happened with T-Bag, or at Pershing Avenue, but this was just an inquiry about his shoulder. Surely that was okay?

"You ever hitch-hike before?" Sucre asked, catching up with Michael. Lincoln followed them both, half a step behind.

"Yeah," Michael said, surprising the hell out of Lincoln.

"Really?" Lincoln said. "You? You're kidding me." He studied his brother's back, looking for anything that said he was joking. It was impossible to tell from his back.

Michael snorted. "Don't sound so surprised, Lincoln," he said.

"I'm not," Lincoln lied. Michael actually turned his head and looked at him, an amused smirk on his lips.

"Oh, really?"

"Okay, so I am. I would have guessed not." Lincoln adjusted his hold on the plastic trash bag. "I have, too. The first foster home they stuck us in? That one I ran from? That's how I got so far away."

"They weren't so bad, you know. No wonder it only lasted a week," Michael remarked mildly

"Yeah. That's how long it took them to find me. You ever hitch hike?" he asked Sucre.

"Por supuesto," he said. "Until I learned how to hotwire a car. Then I joined the ranks of people with wheels. For awhile, at least."

"So that's how you got that car going when I still had the keys," Lincoln said. He patted his pocket absently. "I still have them, actually."

"Now I know how to do that, too," Michael said.

"Hotwire a car?" Lincoln asked.

"Yep," Michael replied. "Hey, you never know when it will be useful."

Lincoln sighed. "In your life before prison, it never would have been useful," he said, feeling guilty. He'd corrupted his brother, permanently. Not like he hadn't before; but now Michael was a man with a record. He'd always be an ex-con; it would be a permanent part of his identity. He'd always have that damn tattoo that covered his entire upper body, and every time Lincoln saw a glimpse of it, he would think of all that Michael had given up for him. For him.

Michael turned around, walking backwards. "You'd be surprised, Linc," he said casually. He squinted off into the distance, and his face broke into a smile. "Hey guys. It's a vehicle."

Lincoln and Sucre swiveled around. Lincoln put his hand up to shield his eyes. It was a pick-up truck, hauling a trailer. He shrugged and turned back to Michael and Sucre, who already had their hands out and thumbs up. Sucre was muttering in Spanish again.

Lincoln saw the truck slowing down, and he let his head fall back in silent gratitude. The driver pulled to the side of the road; it was an older man; around sixty, maybe older, with a cowboy hat on. He reached across and rolled down the window, saying something in Spanish.

Lincoln groaned silently. He was so sick of fucking Spanish! He watched as Sucre and the man had a short conversation. Michael smiled.

"Gracias!" his brother said.

"Gracias," Sucre echoed. Both of the men jogged over to the back of the truck, leaving Lincoln standing on the side of the road, feeling like an idiot.

"Get up here, Lincoln," Michael said. "He'll take us as far as he's going." He pulled himself into the bed of the truck, where some hay bales were stacked, and used one as a seat.

"Oh." he said, nodded to the man, and quickly scrambled up after Michael and Sucre. The three men found space among the hay bales for themselves and their stuff as the man pulled back onto the highway and started driving again.

"I don't get it, Linc. How come Michael speaks Spanish, and you don't know a fucking word?" Sucre asked, settling back against a hay bale.

"I didn't graduate from high school," Lincoln replied, trying to find a more comfortable position for his legs. "Michael went to Loyola. And graduated. Got a—"

"I took an emphasis in Spanish," Michael interrupted. He wiped his arm across his forehead, taking sweat with it. "Damn, it's getting hot."

"Take off your sweatshirt, then," Lincoln said.

Michael shook his head. "Can't. The tattoos are too distinctive. Right now, I'm just a random guy—"

"Who's dumb enough to hitchhike through Mexico in the summer in a sweatshirt—" Sucre added.

"—but if anyone sees those tattoos? Then, I'm Michael Scofield, one of the Fox River Three. We can't afford that. Even here."

"You're gonna die of heat exhaustion or something," Lincoln said, studying his brother's face. It was turning red.

"Heat? Hey, remember the riot at Fox River because we killed the AC? It's practically Arctic compared to that," Sucre said.

Michael's face was blank, but he nodded. "Exactly. I'll survive." He looked down, wiping more sweat off his face.

Lincoln shook his head. "Well, it's your choice, I guess. I'm taking a nap. Wake me when we stop." He leaned back and shifted again, trying to straighten out his long legs without much success. He resigned himself to a rather uncomfortable nap and shut his eyes.

"Yep. My choice. For all of us," Michael said. "You do realize that I'm doing this for all of us, right? I'm doing this so we don't get fucking caught on a, a…minor detail?" Michael's voice had risen, and Lincoln opened his eyes again.

"Okay. Shit, man. I appreciate it, all right?" He looked at Michael; Michael looked away and shook his head.

"Sorry. I'm just tired."

Lincoln nodded. He could understand that. He shut his eyes again, and allowed his body to relax into sleep.


	58. Chapter 58

"You sleep okay last night?" Sucre asked out of the blue.

Michael's head swiveled so fast he heard his neck crack. "Why?" he asked sharply. "Did I say something? Last night, I mean?" He forced himself to keep breathing.

"No," Sucre said. "It's just…"

Michael didn't like how he trailed off. "What?" he asked.

"Well, you woke me up really early this morning—"

Michael shivered, despite the sweater and the intense sun. What had he been doing that had woken Sucre? And how hadn't it woken Lincoln, who had been right next to him? His brain shot into overdrive. 

"—and I just wondered if you slept?" Sucre stared at his hands as though he'd never seen anything like them before. He looked extremely uncomfortable.

Michael took a breath. He realized that when Sucre said he had woken him, he meant when Michael had nudged him in the side early this morning and told him to get up.

"Yeah. I slept some," Michael said. He had; he'd gotten a few fitful hours, and had managed to wake himself up on the brink of another nightmare. He'd spent half an hour lying still in the darkness, listening for any sign that either Lincoln or Sucre had been alerted to anything out of the ordinary before being satisfied that they were both asleep. After that, he'd been scared to push it any more; he'd just laid still and tried to modify his plans for the day. He'd spent a lot of time studying maps of Mexico while planning his route to Panama, and he thought he remembered enough to get them to Mexico City. "You?"

Sucre nodded. "I'll sleep better once Maricruz is with us," he said, not sounding uncomfortable anymore. "And you will too, once your Sara gets here." He grinned at his former cellie.

Michael could feel his cheeks reddening slightly. "She's not 'my Sara," he protested.

"You said, "I love you too." That means she said it first." Sucre sounded satisfied with himself. "I'm right, ain't I?"

Michael smiled, mostly to himself. Sucre laughed. "I knew it!" he said, lightly hitting Michael's knee. "She is your Sara!"

Michael couldn't help but think he liked the sound of that. He ducked his head and shook it slightly anyway.

They bumped along the road in companionable silence for a few minutes. Michael's eyes caught a sign.

"Look. Chihuahua; three miles," he said. "That's us."

"Si," Sucre said. "Finally! My ass is falling asleep back here."

"Wake up, Linc," Michael said, shaking his brother's shoulder. Lincoln stirred.

"Yeah?" he said sleepily.

"We're almost to Chihuahua," Sucre said. "That's where the guy said he was going."

"Chihuahua? Like the dog? From the Taco Bell commercials?" Suddenly, Lincoln slightly more awake.

Michael laughed. "Yeah. But don't get your hopes up."

He pulled the backpack onto his back again and got ready to hop out of the truck. "Take the bag," he reminded Lincoln.

"I've got it," he said, sitting up and swinging it over his shoulder.

"City limits, I think," Sucre said, pointing at another sign a few minutes later.

Michael nodded, observing. He heard Lincoln grunt in acknowledgement.

Once they had entered the main part of the city, the man pulled over and said, "Want me to leave you here?" in Spanish out the window.

"Yes. Thank you, sir," Sucre replied.

The driver nodded as the three men jumped off the back. He drove off without another word, leaving Michael, Sucre, and Lincoln standing at the side of the road with their bags.

"How far do we have to go?" Lincoln asked.

"Miles," Michael said. "Around 950 of them, to be specific, and that's as the bird flies."

Lincoln let out a low whistle. "Shit. Better get walking, then."

"Maricruz is gonna be waiting in that airport all by herself for hours," Sucre said. "Maybe even days. Hell, she could be there already. Ai, she's gonna kill me." He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Michael took a deep breath. He felt like he was melting in the heat; the sweatshirt was damp with sweat and sticking to his body. "Let's try to take a bus to the other side of the city, at least, and we can keep hitchhiking from there," he suggested.

Lincoln and Sucre nodded in silent agreement.

"Bus stop's over there," Michael said, gesturing up a block. "Let's go."

Michael's skin was crawling; he was glad, suddenly, for that stifling sweatshirt. People were crowded all around him, and he was grateful that claustrophobia had never been a problem. He was squashed between Lincoln's elbow and the window; Sucre was clinging to a rail with one hand a few feet in front of them.

"This is our stop." Sucre called back to them in English. Lincoln practically exploded to his feet, sending people outward forcibly by swinging his elbows and the plastic trash bag full of their supplies. Michael followed him with the backpack. They squeezed through the crowded bus and down the stairs, onto the street. It suddenly seemed much cooler; Michael took a deep breath.

"Okay," he said. "We'll just take 45 towards Torreón, and hopefully, someone will pick us up on the way."

"That's not much of a plan, Papi," Sucre said.

"Yeah, well, my first plan was a lot better, but unfortunately, there was a hitch," he said acidly. He didn't want to hear complaining any more; he was hot and thirsty and tired and sick of things not working how they were supposed to.

"Just saying, man," Sucre said, putting up his hands.

Michael clenched his teeth. He considered apologizing and decided against it. "Come on," he said.

The three of them trudged out of the city along the side of the highway. Close to the city, there were lots of cars, and all three of them walked half-backwards, thumbs up, trying to persuade anyone to pull over.

"This is pathetic," Sucre said after a couple of miles, breaking the silence. Another car sailed by, completely ignoring their presence.

Lincoln shrugged and unbuttoned his shirt a little more. "Maybe that'll help," he said, grinning at Michael, who shook his head.

"I don't think it'll be that easy, Linc," he said. "Unfortunately."

"Well, if nothing else, at least I won't fucking melt on this walk. Don't suppose you have any water in this bag, do you?" he asked.

"Sorry," Michael said. "Walking across Mexico, midday, was not part of plans A, B, or C. We can buy some bottled water next time we cross a town."

"If we don't die of dehydration before that," Lincoln said.

Michael took a deep breath and turned, about to let Lincoln really have it, when Sucre cried, " ¡Agradece a dios!"

He turned back around, and saw a car pulling to the side of the road. Behind the wheel was an attractive woman of around forty. She smiled.

"Need a ride?" she asked in Spanish.

Sucre turned to the woman, and replied, "Thank you! Going towards Torreón?"

"Sure," she said. "Get in. Your friends are American?"

"Yes," Michael replied; no use lying about that. She smiled again, bigger. Michael couldn't believe this. Was he really seeing what he thought he was seeing? That look in her eye said he was.

"I've heard interesting things about Americans," she replied. "Are they true?"

Holy shit. She was a cougar. Michael and Sucre looked at each other. Michael bit his lip so he wouldn't laugh. "Uh…like what?" he asked.

"Get in," she said coyly, playing with her hair..

Michael looked at Sucre, and flicked his head towards the backseat. Sucre nodded. "Lincoln, you get shotgun," he said in English.

"Sure," Lincoln said, climbing in the front seat. Michael held his breath as he climbed into the backseat, not looking at Sucre so he wouldn't burst out laughing.

"So, where are you boys headed?" she asked in Spanish again as she stepped on the gas.

"Mexico City," Michael said.

'That's nice," she replied. "Any plans yet?"

"We're meeting our girlfriends," Sucre said, gesturing to Michael and himself. Michael nodded, grateful that Sucre had managed to work that tidbit in there. He saw a small flicker of disappointment on the woman's face; she hid it quickly.

"And what about you, big guy?" she asked Lincoln in Spanish. He stared at her, his eyebrows raised, looking confused.

"He doesn't speak Spanish," Michael said quickly, before she could get offended.

"Yeah, he's just a stupid American," Sucre added. Michael coughed.

"What are you saying?" Lincoln asked Michael, wrinkling his brow.

"We're introducing you," Sucre said innocently.


	59. Chapter 59

"Are you sure you boys wouldn't like to stay with me?" she asked. She twisted sideways in her seat, her left hand squeezing Lincoln's knee. Sucre could see Lincoln's confusion and discomfort, even in the darkness. He hid his smirk out of courtesy to this lady who'd just driven them hundreds of miles. "I'm going to Mexico City tomorrow too, you know." She smiled in a way that was likely supposed to be sexy, but read as desperate. "We could share a room…"

Sucre didn't know what to say. He wanted to laugh; to tell her he wasn't going to be in a weird foursome with her, his ex-cellie, and his ex-cellie's brother, not for a million dollars, but... He shot Michael a desperate glance out of the sides of his eyes; Michael's face was expressionless. He was on his own.

"That's really generous, pretty lady," Sucre replied finally, "but our girls are waiting and we have to get to the airport before they decide to kill us for making them wait too long!" He chuckled slightly, trying to break the tension. After a moment, she did too.

"Well, it was worth a try," she said, smiling again. "You are very handsome. All three of you." She openly eyed his body. Sucre could feel himself blushing slightly; he wasn't used to feeling like a piece of meat. Hell, even in prison, he'd never been looked over like that! It made him feel foolish, that how she was looking at him was making his stomach feel queasy. He let out a slight breath of relief when her eyes shifted to Michael.

"Thanks, miss," Michael said, sounding so sincere. Her scrutiny didn't seem to faze him at all. "Coming from a lady as beautiful as you, that's a true compliment."

Sucre looked over at Michael, who was all charm and sweetness, his eyes overflowing with something that was almost, but not quite, honesty. If Sucre hadn't lived with Michael for the last month, he wouldn't have known the difference. He watched, half-frightened, half-fascinated, as Michael took her free hand and kissed it, still making eye contact. Damn; the man was like something out of a telenovela or something. He could see this woman swooning.

Her eyelashes fluttered a little. She smiled again. "You are quite a charmer," she said to Michael. "Your girlfriend…she is a lucky, lucky woman."

Sucre saw Michael's eyes drop for a second. Then he was making eye contact with her again. "Thank you, miss," he replied. Michael switched abruptly to English. "Come on guys. Let's go."

They all got out of the car. The woman smiled at them again before heading to the office of the motel to check in. Sucre turned and followed Michael and Lincoln back to the highway and they started to walk again, into the darkness of the night.

"You still have all your necessary parts, Linc?" Michael asked his brother jokingly. "She sure was friendly, huh?" 

"No fucking kidding," Lincoln replied. "Friendly? You should be glad it was dark; you guys missed half of it. Thankfully for you."

"Don't bother complaining about it; we all know you liked it," Sucre said. He turned to Michael. "And you! Holy shit, Michael! You should be in telenovelas or something! That was some good fucking acting, Papi!"

He saw Michael's shoulders stiffen a little bit. He let out a noise that was almost, but not quite, a snort. "Yeah. Telenovelas," he repeated.

"Hell, if I hadn't known better, I would have believed you," Sucre said. "She was in love with you, practically! You must have had a lot of practice with that, huh?" He saw Michael jerk at those words, and it caught him by surprise. What the hell?

"What are you talking about?" Lincoln asked, distracting Sucre from the way Michael was carrying himself..

Sucre sighed. "I forget you don't speak Spanish," he said. "She was, uh…trying to continue the action."

"She wanted us to spend the night with her. In the hotel," Michael clarified.

"What?" Lincoln said. "Like…wait a second. Like we were…?" He sounded absolutely astounded.

"Si," Sucre said, nodding. "She's heard things about Americans, you see." He smirked; even in the dark, he could see how round Lincoln's eyes were.

"A ride for a ride," Michael said flatly. Sucre looked at him and raised his eyebrows. He sounded funny. What was wrong with him?

"Wait, so what did you tell her, Michael?" Lincoln asked, turning to face his brother.

"Keep walking," Michael said, giving Lincoln's shoulder a shove. He did, but turned his head to watch. Sucre watched Michael too. He was acting kind of strange…

"She said we were handsome," Sucre said. He thought again about how her eyes had perused his body, and how exposed he'd felt in that moment. "And Michael—"

"I thanked her," Michael interrupted flatly.

"Yeah, by telling her that was a hell of compliment from someone so beautiful, and then he kissed her hand. You noticed that, didn't you? He was like something out of one of those trashy novels Maricruz likes, the ones where the girl's shirt is falling off on the cover."

"You've read those?" Lincoln asked, smirking at Sucre.

"No!" Sucre denied hotly. "Maricruz talks about them sometimes." He hoped they couldn't see him blushing in the dark; he couldn't help it if his girl thought they were hot, could he? He just wanted to make her happy.

"Uh-huh," Lincoln said, not sounding convinced.

"You should be a politician or something, Papi," Sucre said, changing the subject. "Kissing babies and shaking hands…you were, like—"

"I don't think a con who escaped from prison is going to make it very far in politics," Michael said, and Sucre felt stupid for forgetting. "Come on, guys. Maybe we can find another ride that will get us the rest of the way to Mexico City," Michael continued. "We aren't that far anymore. We're just outside Celaya; that's only a few hundred miles from where we want to be."

Lincoln sighed. "What time is it, anyway?"

Sucre saw Michael press a button on his watch that lit up the screen. "8:22," he said. "Local time. Really, we were pretty lucky. This hasn't taken all that much longer than I planned for it to take in the first place."

"Good. Hey, Papi? Once we get the girls, are we still gonna try to hitch hike? Ain't no way someone's gonna pick up five people, you know? And I didn't tell Maricruz to pack light, either." Shit. He knew he'd be carrying her luggage too. He hoped she'd been more practical than she had when they'd gone to Minneapolis for a concert a few years before; he'd never seen anyone pack three suitcases for a three-day weekend before!

Lincoln laughed. "You're gonna be carrying five hundred pounds of luggage across Mexico," he said.

"Not just any luggage, either," Sucre said, grimacing as he remembered trying to wrangle her luggage through downtown Minneapolis; he'd gotten some odd looks, all right. "It's pink."

Michael laughed too. "I don't know," he said. "It's not really safe for us to rent a car because anyone looking for us could track us via their names, and—"

"Well, that's probably how they paid for the tickets, Michael," Lincoln said.

"Why don't we just, uh, borrow one, Papi?" Sucre said. "You could try out your new skills."

A few cars drove past; none of them even slowed down. Michael sighed. "We can't. If we commit any crimes in Panama, they can toss us in jail there."

"But this is Mexico, man," Sucre said.

"Yes. And if they catch us here? They can send us back to the US. No. We're gonna have to do it legally, however we do it."

"Can we buy one?" Sucre asked, looking off into the distance. He thought he saw more headlights, and stuck out his thumb again.

"We don't have a lot of money," Michael replied. "Unless we can get a car for the equivalent of about two hundred American dollars…and can find some other way to eat. That's the last of the money I put in the backpack."

The headlights came closer, and Sucre thought, just maybe, they were slowing down. He whispered a quick prayer; what could it hurt?

"Can't hurt to try," Lincoln said. He too threw out his hand, thumb up.

"Yeah, well…keep your eyes open, then," Michael said. "I haven't seen any cars for sale yet."

"You ain't been looking either, Papi," Sucre pointed out. The vehicle pulled over; another pick-up truck. The windows were open, and a man's voice floated out into the dark.

"Where you headed?" he asked in Spanish.

"Mexico City," Michael replied.

"You're in luck," the man replied. "Hop in."

"Thank you, sir!" Sucre cried. He hopped into the back of the truck, followed quickly by Michael and Lincoln.

The man stepped on the gas, and the wind generated by the motion of the truck made Sucre shiver.

"Don't fall asleep," Michael said. In the dark, it was impossible to tell who he was addressing. "We're almost there now. Just a few more hours."

"Almost to Maricruz," Sucre said, thinking of his girl's sweet smile and beautiful eyes. God, he missed her so much! He leaned back and looked up at the sky, noticing that it was too cloudy to see any stars.

"Es nublado," he remarked to Michael.

He felt Michael shift slightly so he could look up. "Si," Michael replied.

"Can't you guys speak English, please?" Lincoln said plaintively. "I'm sick of being left out of the conversation!"

"It's cloudy," Sucre repeated.

"Yep," Michael said. Sucre could hear the slightest hint of laughter in his voice.

There was a moment of silence, and then Lincoln sighed. "Never mind," he said, sounding tired.

Sucre couldn't help but laugh at that; Michael wasn't far behind.


	60. Chapter 60

Maricruz had collected her luggage so long ago. Fernando had told her to meet him here; she knew it was true. He'd find her somehow. And she had her phone. So what was taking him so long? She had started worrying hours ago; it was beginning to blossom into full blown panic. Where was he? Had something happened to him?

She stood up, rolling her suitcase behind her. She had to use the bathroom again. Wasn't that supposed to be something that happened late in pregnancy? It might have something to do with all the diet Coke she was drinking too, she supposed; she didn't want to fall asleep before Fernando got here.

The bathroom was nearly empty. Maricruz flipped open her phone and checked the time. 10:48. She sighed and walked into the handicap stall; it was the only one that had enough room for her AND her suitcase.

When Maricruz walked out, her suitcase got stuck on the edge of the stall. She sighed, yanking on it roughly. "Come on!" she cried, getting frustrated. "I don't need this!"

It pulled loose with a pop, and she straightened up, only to look into familiar eyes. She flinched.

"You're the doctor from the prison," she said before she could stop herself. She bit her lip. Why had she said that? This woman never would have recognized her if she had kept quiet; she would have just been another Latina in Mexico. But now…oh God. Maricruz silently prayed.

"Fox River," the doctor said, nodding. "Sara Tancredi."

Maricruz moved to the sink and washed her hands, keeping her eyes down. Please, she prayed. Don't let her recognize me.

"You're…I'm sorry, I don't remember your name," she heard the doctor say. "But I know you're married to Fernando Sucre."

Maricruz's head whipped up. "How—I mean, we aren't married. Not yet, anyway." She wiped off her hands on her jeans. "He's my fiancé."

"I remember seeing you leave the conjugal rooms," the doctor said. "I just assumed…"

Maricruz nodded cautiously, wondering why she would have to run into her, of all people, and here, of all places. At all times. She prayed Fernando would keep being slow, so she could lose this woman.

"It was a special arrangement," Maricruz said. Not that it was any of this doctor's business.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry," the woman replied. She paused, and Maricruz saw her swallow. When she spoke again, she sounded cautious. "He's with Michael," she said.

Maricruz took a step back, her eyes widening. "What? I don't know what you mean," she said, groping for the handle of her suitcase blindly. She had to get away from this woman now. Shit, shit, shit! What if Fernando found her now? This lady would call the cops!

"Sucre. He's with Lincoln and Michael. I know it's true; when I talked to him early this morning, I heard them talking in the background." The doctor was watching her.

"I don't know what you mean," Maricruz said. "I'm here visiting my cousin." She clutched at the handle of her suitcase with both hands. "Wait. Did you say you talked to Michael? Michael Scofield? Who escaped from Fox River?" Her eyes met the doctor's.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Early this morning, he called me."

Maricruz stopped. "What? He called you? Why…" she started to ask, and then something in the doctor's expression showed her the why. "You and he are…what, exactly?"

"Michael told me to meet him here…he said that Sucre was meeting…you're Maricruz? He said they were meeting you here, and that I should come too." The doctor blushed a little bit.

"Did you bring the cops?" Maricruz asked. She had to make sure, after all, that this wasn't a set up of some kind. "Please, Doctor, don't—"

The doctor's face fell. "No," she said, and she sounded wounded. "No. I didn't bring cops! I…I just came by myself. For Michael."

"For Michael?" Maricruz echoed, studying her face. She had such wide, brown eyes.

The doctor's face colored slightly. "Yes," she said.

Maricruz studied the blushing doctor. She'd only seen Michael Scofield on the news or from a distance, but she knew he was a handsome man. Not as handsome as Fernando, of course, but nice looking. And he and this doctor would be a beautiful couple. And she was most definitely, from the way she was blushing, falling for him. Or perhaps she'd already fallen. Yes, that was a powerful reason to travel to Mexico; love.

"You love him?" Maricruz asked. The doctor's face flamed, and she bit her lower lip.

"I…think I might," she replied quietly. Maricruz smiled; she could trust this doctor, who would travel all this way for a man she thought she might love. Maricruz knew it was true, even if she didn't. It was all over this woman's face.

"Come on, Doctor. Let's get some coffee," she said.

"Call me Sara, please," Sara said.

"Maricruz," she replied. They left the bathroom. Maricruz looked around.

"Where's your luggage?" she asked.

Sara laughed. "Right here," she said, turning slightly. On her back was a brand new knapsack. It was plain black, and obviously stuffed to the gills.

"That's impressive," Maricruz said. "I could never get all my stuff into a bag so small!"

"Michael said we'd likely be walking; there was apparently some kind of transportation 'hitch.'" Sara made quotations with her fingers. "I haven't owned one of these since I graduated! I had to go to JCPenny and buy one."

Maricruz smiled. Every word this woman was saying was making her relax. She was chatting excitedly; like Theresa had before her date with that guy from the store who she'd fallen head over heels for. Maricruz had observed Sara a few times at the prison, and she'd always been so serious and reserved, rarely smiling, rarely showing any emotion at all. But here? Here, she was bubbling, excited, smiling, and happy. She was in love.

It was a beautiful thing to see.

The two women walked together to one of the airport's stands and each purchased a cup of coffee. "I really need this," Sara said. "As soon as Michael told me where to meet him, I ran, got this bag, packed, and bought a ticket to Mexico City. I only got off the plane half an hour ago."

"I've been here awhile," Maricruz replied. "Fernando told me to leave right away; that was last night." The women found themselves a place to sit, and Maricruz propped her feet on her luggage.

"Whew!" she said. "I think I packed too much! I'm not going to like carrying this! Did you say there was a problem with the, uh…car, or something?"

"They had transportation problems,' Sara said.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Maricruz asked.

Sara shook her head. "I don't really know," she said. "Michael was kind of vague. He just said that 'plans had changed'. "

"Well, there was a hitch," a familiar male voice said. Maricruz felt hands clasp her shoulders, and she looked up into Fernando's smiling eyes. "Somebody stole our car, Mami!"

Maricruz squealed and leapt to her feet. "Baby!" she yelped, and he put one hand on the back of the chair and jumped over them, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her tight. "Oh my God, you're all right! Baby, I was so worried about you!"

They kissed, and Maricruz melted in his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder. He whispered in her ear in Spanish; all she could pick out was, "Mi amor," but it was sweet and romantic and she loved him all the more for it. She looked up after a moment.

Sara was standing in front of Michael, her face expectant and unsure. Michael's face was a mirror of hers. Maricruz nudged Fernando in the stomach. "Look," she whispered. He turned his head.

They stood there for a long moment. Maricruz was going crazy. Both of them were practically glowing with love and excitement for each other, and yet they weren't talking, weren't touching, weren't anything.

It was Fernando who broke the standoff. "You gonna hug her Papi, or just stare at her?" he asked, squeezing Maricruz again. "It's okay; we all know you want to."

They both blushed, but Michael held out his arms, and Sara stepped into them. Maricruz heard her say, "It's good to see you're alright," and she smiled. They'd do okay.

"Oh, baby, please tell me this is it for your luggage," Fernando pleaded, still holding her waist and looking down at her one pink suitcase. "We still ain't got a car."

"That's it," Maricruz said. "Don't worry; I learned from our trip to Minneapolis!"

"That's my girl," Sucre said. He turned to Lincoln, who was looking a little bit awkward, his arms crossed over his chest. "How 'bout you grab that for me, huh, Linc?"

"She's your girl," Lincoln said, but he reached for the suitcase. "Hi. I'm Lincoln," he introduced himself.

"Maricruz Delgado," she said. He nodded at her, and then turned. "Michael. Come on."

Maricruz looked back at Michael and Sara. They were standing close together, talking quietly. Michael looked up.

"Yeah, okay," he said. "Let's get out of here. Sara said she saw a couple of those damn posters up around here, even."

Maricruz felt Fernando tense under her arm. "Shit," he said. "Let's go."

"This way," Michael said with a gesture. Maricruz felt Fernando's hand settle in hers, and then the five of them were walking purposefully through the airport and towards an exit.


	61. Chapter 61

When they got to the door of the airport, it was raining. Lincoln swore heavily, then looked at Maricruz and Sara. "Sorry," he said.

They just shook their heads; he saw Sara hide a small smile. He turned to Michael. "Now what?" he asked.

He saw Michael's shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. "Well…I don't think we're going to make it very far in the rain."

"How about a hotel?" Sucre asked. Lincoln smirked at him, and the man shrugged. "What? I haven't seen my girl for a long time, man!"

Maricruz blushed and delicately elbowed him in the stomach. Lincoln laughed. He turned to Michael. "What do you think?"

Michael looked at Sara, and Lincoln watched them have a conversation with their eyes. God damn these people and all their speaking in languages he didn't understand! "Well, we don't have a hell of a lot of money, but if we could find a cheap place like that one in the States, I guess that would be okay," he said finally.

Lincoln nodded. "Hey Sucre. You read Spanish. Are any of these signs advertisements for cheap, dirty motels?"

Sucre and Michael both looked around them, and shook their heads. Maricruz sighed.

"There's an information booth over there," she said, pointing. "Just go ask them."

Lincoln grimaced, and said, "Sucre?"

"Michael," Sucre said. "I ain't going to ask for—"

"I'll go," Michael said. He looked at Sara. "You want to come with me?"

Lincoln could see his brother's affection for the doc in that question. She nodded, and the pair walked off towards the kiosk, almost but not quite touching. He grinned. His brother in love. Damn.

He watched as Michael leaned down and whispered something in Sara's ear, and then reached for her hand. She moved closer to him, taking his hand too.

Lincoln looked away, to Sucre and Maricruz for a second, and then back to Michael and Sara. He was the proverbial third wheel here. Shit. Were they really going to have to get three motel rooms? He was not going to listen to either pair fucking all night, especially not if he was all alone. He shook his head. He should have invited Vee. Except that she was so angry at him now…relieved, but angry. Well, nothing wrong with angry sex, Lincoln mused.

He could see Michael speaking with the man behind the desk, still holding Sara's hand. There was a lot of nodding, and then they turned and started walking back. Lincoln noticed that they didn't drop hands.

"Well, now we're officially on our way to get married," Michael said, hiding a grin, "and looking for the cheapest possible motel to stay in afterwards. Which apparently is not that uncommon in Mexico City. He gave me a list." Michael pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket and waved it at Lincoln. "Of chapels, too…this place isn't quite as big for impromptu weddings as Vegas, but there are some choices."

Sara was blushing, and so was Michael. Lincoln grinned. They were funny.

"Any Catholic ones, Papi?" Sucre asked. Lincoln turned back to the other pair of lovebirds; they were entwined in each other's arms, looking smitten. "Me and Maricruz…we do wanna get married."

Michael handed Sucre the list of chapels. "Take a look; I thought I saw a few," he said with a smirk. "We are in Mexico, after all."

"Fucker," Sucre said, but not with any malice. "What do you think, Mami?" he asked, showing the pamphlet to Maricruz.

"This one looks pretty," she said, pointing. Lincoln looked at Michael, who was intently studying the list of hotels.

"This one's cheap," he said. "Really cheap. Shit. Like…pay by the hour cheap." Lincoln saw Michael grimace. "I don't think so."

"It's just one night," Lincoln said.

"Those places don't change the sheets. Ever," Michael said.

"How would you know, Michael?" he asked. "Not like you've ever been in one."

Michael just raised his eyebrows. "It's not an option." He kept reading on. "Okay. Here's one. It's the equivalent of…twenty bucks a room a night. I think we can afford that." He sighed. "That cuts down on car funds, though."

"Well, we need to sleep," Lincoln said.

"Among other things," Michael said, with a sideways glance at Sucre and Maricruz.

That was a good point. "How many rooms are we getting?" Lincoln asked.

Michael looked at him, and then Sara. She looked away, crossing her arms uncomfortably over her stomach.

"Sara?" Michael asked.

She blushed slightly. "Uh…"

Lincoln sighed. "Listen. Get three rooms. I'm not going to listen to—"

"Lincoln!" Michael said, cutting him off. Sara laughed, breaking the tension.

"Well, if you don't start moving, Maricruz and Sucre are gonna be heading off into a bathroom," Lincoln said. They'd obviously decided on a chapel, and were now making out again, with more fervor. He sighed. "How far away is this cheap hotel of yours?"

"A few miles, according to the map on the wall," Michael said. "So let's go." He adjusted his backpack. "Got your stuff?" he asked Sara.

She nodded. "I feel like I'm in college again!" she said. "Backpacks, running away to Mexico—"

"You did that in college?" Michael asked.

"Tijuana weekend," she replied.

"I never would have guessed," Michael replied, smiling.

"Sucre, let's go," Lincoln said. "Come on man. She's already pregnant; she's gonna marry you."

"Fuck you," Sucre said, but he disconnected from Maricruz and took her hand. "We walking?"

"Yep," Lincoln said.

The five of them stepped out of the airport and into the rain. The droplets were cold and close together, falling heavier the farther they walked. It took only a mile or so of walking to get soaked to the skin.

Lincoln could see everyone shivering, just like he was. Michael's lips were turning blue, like they had when they were kids. Sucre had wrapped both of his arms around Maricruz, and somehow they managed to walk like that, leaving Lincoln hauling that damn pink suitcase.

"What the hell did you pack, anyway?" Lincoln asked. It was a heavy suitcase, even if it was pretty small.

"Just the essentials," Maricruz replied. "Clothing, mostly."

Sucre whispered something in Maricruz's ear that made her blush. "'Nando!" she protested. Lincoln thought he had an idea.

"I'm so fucking cold," he heard Sara say. Her voice shook from the cold, and Lincoln felt bad for her.

He watched Michael wrap his arm around her shoulders. "We'll be there soon," he said quietly. "Just a few miles."

Lincoln dropped his head, feeling the rain run down the back of his neck. A few more miles. Really, after all this, a few more miles wasn't that far at all.


	62. Chapter 62

"If you want," Michael said softly in her ear, "I can room with Lincoln. If you'd be more comfortable with that."

Her heart warmed, even though her body was still shivering. He was such a gentleman, Michael Scofield. He was worried that she might not want to sleep in the same room as him after all, that she might be feeling shy.

"That's all right, Michael," she said, smiling slightly. 'I think…I think we should talk."

Michael nodded solemnly. "Okay," he said. She wondered how he could look so damn handsome, shivering and dripping wet in a blue hooded sweatshirt. Her hair stuck to her face in long tangles, obscuring her vision somewhat. She felt like a drowned rat.

"Come on, then," he said, his long fingers toying with the key. "You look like you're freezing."

"Your lips are blue, Michael," she said. "I'm not the only one."

He smirked slightly. "Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

She felt her face heat up. Why could he make her blush so easily?

He stopped in front of a door. "Here," he said, opening it. "Go on."

She hesitated, and he put his hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside. Suddenly, she had this déjà vu feeling; it was like prom night all over again. Except this time, she was with the man of her dreams, not a half-drunken oaf. Definitely an improvement.

He followed her inside and shut the door. "You can have first shower," he said, looking her over. Self-consciously, she tucked her hair behind her ear. "You're shivering."

She nodded. "Okay," she said.

"I'm going to get some dry clothes from Lincoln," Michael said. "I'll be right back."

He left the room, his arm brushing hers as he passed. When the door shut, she let her head fall back and sighed. A shower would be nice. Dry clothes too. And Michael's arms. That would be the nicest thing of all.

She gave herself a mental shake and went into the bathroom, turning on the shower and peeling out of her wet clothes. She stepped under the hot water with a sigh of contentment.

She washed her hair and body and wished she'd remembered to pack a razor—well, no use wishing. She'd have to buy one, she guessed. Until then…she sighed again.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping one of the hotel's bath towels around her body. Another one was sacrificed for her hair. That left two for Michael.

She walked out of the bathroom. Michael was standing with his back to her, pulling off his sweatshirt. She froze, watching fascinated, as he pulled it over his head, taking his rain-soaked tee shirt with it. Exposing all that ink-covered skin.

He turned after his shirt was off. His eyes widened when he saw her. "You're out," he said.

"Yeah," she replied, only then realizing she was wearing nothing but a towel. "Uh…did you find some dry clothes?"

"On the bed," he said, gesturing. "They're going to be way too big…the sweatpants have a drawstring in the waist though." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to shower now."

She nodded, trying not to stare at his bare chest. It was strange; in the infirmary, she'd never looked at him like that. She'd looked at him, had admired his looks even…but she'd never been stunned by him before. It was a very different feeling.

He scooped up a pile of clothing and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door. She turned to the clothes on the bed.

He was right. The sweatpants were ridiculously big, but with the drawstring, she managed to get them to stay around her hips. She pulled on the tee shirt, and then the sweatshirt. The warmth was nice, and she felt herself begin to relax. If only she had a pair of warm, fuzzy socks…another luxury she'd probably not see for a very long time.

She opened her backpack and started pulling her things out of it. Her clothing was completely soaked, as was everything else in the bag. She sighed and looked around the room. There was a small rail with a few hangers; she could hang it over that to drip dry.

She carefully draped all her clothing so it could dry, laying some things flat, looping things over the rail, over hangers. She barely heard the door open behind her.

"Wow. You put a lot of stuff in that backpack," Michael commented. She'd known he was there, but she jumped anyway.

"Yeah," she said, turning to face him. "I…I didn't know when I'd be going back. To the States…"

He studied her, smiling slightly. She studied him back.

He'd dressed in a pair of sweats too, and a plain white tee shirt. His tattooed arms stood out starkly. She looked up into his face.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked.

"You're drowning in those clothes," Michael replied. "I stole them from Lincoln."

"Well, no wonder," she said. "He's a big guy."

They stood there, staring at each other. Sara's heart was beating fast. She wanted to hug him, to tell him that she had been so angry, so worried…and so glad that he'd gotten away, that he'd saved his brother.

Suddenly, he opened his arms, just like he had in the airport, and she stepped into them. "Oh, Sara," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to involve you in the escape like that; I was running out of time and running out of options. Any other time, and Abruzzi would have come with us, and C-Note, and Westmoreland, and…and T-Bag, too. Not because I wanted it, but because I would have had to. And I couldn't let them out into society again; Westmoreland, and C-Note would have been all right, they just wanted to see their families. But Abruzzi, a murderer? And T-Bag…there was no way I could send that piece of scum back out to hurt another person, another child. But WE had to get out, or Lincoln was going to die. And he didn't kill Terrence Steadman, Sara. He didn't." In his eyes, she could see his desperation that she believe him. He was begging her.

"I believe you, Michael," she said. "Veronica Donovan gave me a file to pass to my father, to try to get him to stop the execution. And I read it. I saw the same gaping holes there."

"It really is a conspiracy, Sara," Michael whispered into her ear. "There's no bottom to it. This was the only way out."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Sara replied.

He pulled away, and looked into her eyes. She looked back. All she saw was honesty, and the prettiest green-blue eyes she'd ever seen in her life.

And then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

It was a soft kiss, a gentle one, and it took her breath away. The kiss in the infirmary had been wonderful This kiss was amazing.

He pulled away and looked at her again. "Sara?" he asked.

"Michael," she said back, and then they were kissing again, their mouths desperately seeking each other, tasting each other. And this time, he didn't taste of prison toothpaste and sadness.

He pulled back and kissed the side of her neck. "You smell like prison soap," he said, and she heard laughter in his voice.

"Guess we must be at a really cheap hotel," she said back.

She giggled when he kissed her again, and whispered, "Well, that's not a scent I ever thought I would find arousing, but on you, it has potential…"

"I always liked it on you," Sara admitted shyly.

He cocked his head, looking a little bit startled. "Why, doctor," he said. "Admitting to feelings for an inmate?" She could see hope in his eyes. God, he had such beautiful eyes.

"For a long time," she replied, dropping her head to his shoulder.

She felt him breathing. She pulled away and took his hand and led him over to the bed without speaking. He looked at her; she nodded. He smiled.

"Oh, Sara," he said again, and those words said so much. She felt like her heart was going to explode with all the love and lust and hope and heartache she heard there.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she relished the feeling of being small and protected in his arms. It had been so long since she had felt small and protected; hell, she couldn't remember the last time. Maybe it was never. His lips touched hers again, and there was heat like fire between them.

He took a step forward and she fell backwards onto the bed. He landed over her, his hands supporting his weight. She heard herself moan.

"Sara," he whispered again, kissing her. "I've dreamt about this." He touched her face, gently caressing her cheek.

"Me too," she whispered back.

In a blur, he pulled off her sweatshirt and tee shirt; she pulled off his. The kisses continued, urgent, yearning kisses, their bodies pressing together. She moaned again as his knee found its way between her legs.

"You want this, Sara?" he asked, pulling away from her so she could look into his eyes.

She was breathing hard. Her fingertips traced over the tattoo on his shoulder. "Please," she replied.

And then they were both kicking off their pants, and Sara admired Michael's body and how the tattoo just stopped, leaving pale, unmarked skin below.

"Condom?" Michael asked.

Sara shook her head. "Come on, Michael," she said. "Please!"

And then he was on top of her, inside her, they were together, and it was better than any dream she'd ever had. She'd never had sex like this before; this time, her heart was involved. And it was wonderful. She was whimpering, feeling his muscles tense under her hands, feeling every single movement either of them made. This…this was heaven. This was the best thing in the world. She'd never felt anything like it.

He came, groaning into her shoulder. She felt his release inside of her; she'd never done that before either. She felt him pull out. She didn't want him to pull away, though, and she wrapped her arms around him tight. "No," she said. "Stay."

"I'm too heavy for you," he said, kissing her temple. The look on his face was indescribable; pure peace was the closest thing she could come up with. Contentment. She felt his arms slide underneath her, and suddenly, they were rolling, and before she knew it, she was laying on his chest. "How about this, instead?"

She sighed contentedly and dropped her head on his chest. "Michael," she whispered. "I've never done that before."

"Done what?" he asked. "Had sex?" His voice was teasing.

"No," she said, looking up at him. "Made love." She laughed. "And before we even had a proper date, none the less."

"Mmm," Michael said. "I still owe you dinner."

"Cup of coffee," she replied.

"Whatever," he said. When he spoke again, his voice was serious. "I've never done that before either," he said. "Made love, I mean."

She looked at him. His eyes were serious too. She kissed him tenderly, and her heart thrilled when she felt it returned.

"It was nice," she said.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "It was."


	63. Chapter 63

That night, he only dreamt of Sara. No nightmares, no sadness, no past coming to haunt him. Just Sara, in his arms, her hair, her smell, her face, her body. The best kind of dreams.

When he woke up, he could barely believe she was still there, curled into him. That it really was her; that last night hadn't been a dream; it had been real. It had been love. He kissed her temple, and she stirred slightly.

"Michael?" she asked sleepily.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Just checking," she replied, rolling over and burying her face in his chest. He took a deep breath and let his arm curl around her. Then, out of long habit, he checked his watch. 7 am.

"Better wake up, Sara," he said. "We've still got a long ways to go today."

She yawned and stretched, cat-like. "Mmm. I think we should stay here. In bed. All day."

He laughed. "As wonderful as that sounds…"

She sat up then, and he rolled over and got out of the bed. Last night, before he'd gone to sleep, he'd laid his clothes out to dry, and this morning, they were mostly dry. His sweater was still a little damp, but it would be cooler that way, at least. They dressed quietly.

He watched Sara pack her clothing back into her backpack. "Everything's dry," she said, "except my bag."

He grabbed a plastic laundry bag off one of the hangers. "Put your clothes in here, and then stick then in you bag," he suggested.

It didn't take them very long to pack up. "I'm going to wake Lincoln," he said. "Do you want to knock on Sucre and Maricruz's door?"

"Sure," Sara said.

"We'll meet in the lobby," he said, briefly kissing her before leaving the room.

"There has to be a car dealership around here somewhere," Lincoln said. "I mean…doesn't there?"

"Yes," Michael said. "We'll find it, Linc."

The five of them continued to walk. All of them were sweating profusely in the heat. Michael felt like he was going to burn up, it was so bad.

"Michael, you should take off that sweater," Sara said.

"I can't," he said. "The tattoos. Too distinctive."

"You're turning red, though," she protested.

He shook his head. "When we get to Panama. There's extradition laws in Mexico; it's too dangerous to be recognized. Especially since we're still within city limits."

He could see worry on her face, but he knew he was right. "It's not that far anymore," he said. "Maybe one more day of travel and we should be there."

"If we get a car," Sucre said.

"Did you guys go to a chapel last night? Get married?" Sara asked Maricruz.

"We were…busy," Maricruz replied, blushing. "We're going to wait until Panama to get married."

Michael hid a smile. Busy. Yeah. He and Sara had been busy last night too.

He had told her the truth last night. When she'd said that she'd never made love before, it had surprised him to realize that he never had, either. He'd had sex, of course; hundreds of times, hundreds of ways, hundreds of people. But he'd never felt love for the other person he was with before, not even with ex-girlfriends. It had just been physical; his body and their body, a reaction to stimuli, and that was it. But last night; that had been love.

It made all the difference in the world. Between mere physical pleasure and something else.

He reached for Sara's hand, and she let him take it. "I'm all sweaty," she warned.

"I don't care," he replied. They traveled on.

"Look!" Sucre cried. "For sale!"

"Where?" Lincoln asked.

Michael saw what Sucre had. "You have to be kidding me," he said, looking.

In the distance was a car. An old car, a 1988 Pontiac. It was a rusting cornflower blue, and in the window was a sign with the price.

"It's cheap," Sucre said. They all walked closer.

It was sitting on someone's front yard.

"For a reason, I'm sure baby," Maricruz said.

Michael had to agree with her. "Yeah…and it would still take up most of the rest of our money," he said, quickly doing a little math in his head.

"Well, we can take a look, can't we?" Lincoln asked.

"You guys really want this car?" Michael asked, walking up to it. He thumped on the hood with the heel of his hand.

"It's got to be better than walking, ese," Sucre said. "And it's real cheap, too."

Michael sighed as an older man stepped out of the house. He walked up to them.

"Are you interested in buying the car?" he asked in Spanish.

Michael looked at him shrewdly. "I want to hear how it runs," he replied.

The man nodded, "Of course," he replied, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Michael nodded and stepped back, watching the man sit in the car. He started it; Michael was relieved to hear it start easily and run, if not perfectly, pretty well. "Sounds good," he remarked.

"I took good care of it," the man replied.

"And that's what you want for it?" Michael asked, gesturing to the sign in the window.

The man nodded. "I can't go any lower. It's been sitting here for a long time. My old lady's been bitching at me to sell the damn thing already." He grinned conspiratorially at Michael. "Women!"

"Yes," Michael said, looking over his shoulder at the small group there. "Ours are sick of walking."

"And I bet you're sick of hauling that luggage, huh?" the man asked Lincoln.

Lincoln didn't respond, but Sucre did. "Yeah, he's been complaining for miles," he said uncharitably.

The man nodded. "I'll be right back," he said, turning to go back inside the house.

Michael felt Sara move up behind him. 'I didn't know you were fluent in Spanish," she said.

"There's so much you don't know about me," he said. It was supposed to be teasing, but somehow, it came out sounding more serious.

"I don't know how much more Spanish I can handle," Lincoln said. "This is the first time in my life I wish I'd paid attention in 10th grade Spanish!"

"Just smile and look handsome," Michael suggested, joking. "It got us a ride before, didn't it?"

"What?" Sara and Maricruz said at the same time.

That sent Lincoln into explaining their brush with the cougar to the women. Sucre was cringing, occasionally throwing a word or two in for clarification, but mostly shaking his head. Michael laughed at Lincoln's explanations; knowing he hadn't understood any of the conversation definitely made them more interesting.

The door slammed behind him, and Michael turned. He quickly exchanged money for keys and paperwork, and shook the hand the man offered. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"Thank you," the man replied. "My wife's happy, and that makes me happy, you know?"

Michael looked over his shoulder, at Sara, who was laughing hysterically at what Lincoln had said. She might not be his wife….yet, he let himself hope….but it made him happy to see her happy. "Yes," he said simply. "I know."


	64. Chapter 64

Sucre steered the car lazily, enjoying the feeling of Maricruz's small, delicate hand on his knee. That was about all there was to enjoy. The windows were down, but this car had nothing resembling air conditioning, and all five of them were dripping with sweat.

"Michael, you need to take that sweatshirt off," Sara said.

"Want another look at my body?" he teased. Sucre laughed. Lincoln rolled his eyes.

"You're going to get heat stroke. We're in a car; you can take off the sweatshirt. Just looking at you is making me sweat." Sara blushed suddenly as everyone else in the car roared with laughter. "I didn't mean it like that!" she protested.

Sucre peeked in the mirror again, and saw Michael take a little pity on her, pulling off his sweatshirt. "Better?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sara replied, pushing the sweatshirt down at their feet. Her hand ran over his tattooed arm. Sucre looked away, feeling like he was intruding on something very private. Maricruz squeezed his knee, and gave him one of her sweet smiles. "They're good for each other," she whispered.

"Don't you guys even think about it," Lincoln said, turning his head to look at the pair. "Remember, you don't have the backseat to yourselves."

"Too bad the radio doesn't work," Sucre said, "so that we could listen to something other than you bitching for awhile, Lincoln.".

"Well, we're almost out of Mexico now," Michael said. "Maybe once we cross the border, we can get the portable one out of the trunk."

"Play a little salsa?" Sucre asked. "Do some dancing, eh Mami?"

Maricruz pulled her hair off her neck. "It's too hot to dance, 'Nando," she said.

"Not too hot to do something else, though," he whispered.

"'Nando!" she said, smacking his arm. "We aren't alone!" She blushed furiously.

"Ouch! I meant get married, Mami!" he said. "We're gonna get married when we get there, right?" He rubbed half-heartedly where she'd hit his arm. "As long as I'm still in one piece."

"Oh," Maricruz replied. "Yeah. Yeah, we're going to get married."

He spared her a quick glance. Her eyes were shining again. He smiled, and touched her chin. She was so damn beautiful.

"You gonna be my best man, Papi?" he asked Michael, glancing back in the mirror. Michael's green-blue eyes met his.

"Whatever you want," he said, but his eyes were smiling.

"Wouldn't that require a ring?" Lincoln asked, staring out the window.

"Pendejo," Sucre said. "I'll get a fucking ring, okay? And not like last time." His eyes met Michael's again, and Michael nodded slightly, still smiling. He'd heard the details about his last attempt to get Maricruz a ring; that was why they'd ended up cellies, after all. His eyes went back to the road.

"And Sara, will you be my maid of honor?" Maricruz asked. "Theresa was going to be, but she's not here, and now you and I are friends, and—" She sounded nervous, like she thought the doctor might say no.

"Of course," Sara said. Sucre glanced back, and saw her smiling too. "I'd love to."

He heard Maricruz sigh contentedly, and he felt like joining her. He put one hand on top of hers.

"What about me?" Lincoln asked after a moment. "What'll I do?"

Sucre grinned. He'd set himself up for it, after all. "Well, there is one more thing every wedding needs," he said.

He saw Lincoln look at him impatiently. "Yeah?" he said.

"That one guy, who gets really, really drunk and passes out somewhere inconvenient. I think we have an opening!"

He ducked, still watching the road, but Lincoln had anticipated the duck, and landed a fairly solid smack to the back of his head. Sucre's hand went to the back of his head.

He wasn't sure if everyone else was laughing at him or laughing at Lincoln, but it didn't even matter right now. He was feeling too damn good to care.

"Michael, how far are we from the border?" Sucre asked as they pulled into the limits of another town.

Michael looked at a sign, and thought for a moment. "Teopisca; that's not too far from the border to Guatemala," he said. "Maybe 75 or 80 miles?"

"So in an hour or so, we'll be in Guatemala?" Sucre said. "How far is Panama from Guatemala?"

"Um…I think about 800 miles, maybe a little more. If I remember correctly. We could buy a map, and not try to rely on my memory anymore, you know. We aren't behind bars now." Michael coughed out a small chuckle.

"Do we have the money?" Lincoln asked.

"A map's not that expensive, Lincoln," Michael said. "I'm keeping track."

Lincoln nodded. "Alright. There's a reason I always let you do all that stuff, I'm not gonna stop now," he said, leaning his head back against the seat's headrest.

"Do what stuff?" Sara asked.

"Taxes. Bills. That kind of thing. Michael was always good with numbers. Unlike me." Lincoln snorted. "He's the brains; I'm the brute."

"Not that it matters," Michael said. He sounded kind of uncomfortable. Sucre didn't understand why, but he decided to do him a favor, and change the subject.

"So…you have plans in Panama?" he asked Michael.

He saw the gratefulness in his eyes. "Yes," Michael said. His fingers traced one of the designs in his tattoos absently. "It's all planned there too."

"Figures," Sucre said. "You plan for everything."

Michael's lip twitched up slightly. "Not quite everything," he replied, and Sucre saw him put his hand on Sara's knee.

"Well, Papi, see? Everything doesn't have to work out to plan to be okay. I told you to have some faith," Sucre said, thinking back to their earlier conversation. It had seemed so long ago; in reality, it wasn't that far at all. Not far, and a lifetime.

"I think we'll drive straight through the night," Michael said, switching the subject again, although without the discomfort of the last time. "So we can get to Panama as soon as possible. I'm going to try to sleep for awhile."

Sucre nodded. His eyes caught Michael's again.

"Wake me if…" Michael said, letting his voice trail off.

Sucre nodded. He understood. Any sign of nightmares, and he'd wake him up. "Por supuesto," he replied.

"Thanks." Michael leaned his head against the side of the car and shut his eyes. After a moment, Sara leaned against him, shutting her eyes too.

Sucre saw Michael's lips turn up in a smile. Somehow, he didn't think Michael was going to have any nightmares.


	65. Chapter 65

"Wake up, Michael," Sucre said. Michael stirred. Outside, the sun was starting to go down.

"Yeah?" he said, cracking his neck.

"Your turn to drive. I'm about ready to drop." He looked it; Michael could see bags starting to form under his eyes.

Michael nodded and nudged Sara. She stretched as much as she could in the backseat. "We're stopped," she noted quietly, so as not to wake Lincoln, who was snoring softly next to her.

"Yeah," Michael said. "We're switching places with Sucre and Maricruz. They're gonna sleep, and we're going to drive." He opened the car door and climbed out. His legs felt stiff and sore from disuse, and he took a few steps to try to get them back to normal.

"We?" Sara said, standing also.

"Well, someone has to keep me awake," Michael said. "Anyway, they want to be together in the backseat, so you've got to move up with me."

"Not that that's a problem," Sara said, slipping her arm around his waist.

He held onto her for a moment, enjoying how she felt in his arms. Finally, he pulled away with a wordless sigh. "Where are we?" he asked Sucre.

"Uh…" Sucre said. "I'm not even sure. I'm so tired." He smiled apologetically at him.

Michael sighed. Okay. He'd figure it out soon enough. He turned back to the car and got into the driver's seat, making room for his taller frame behind the wheel. Sara got into the passenger seat.

Maricruz and Sucre slid into the backseat and did their best to make themselves comfortable in the small space. Michael put the car into drive and pulled back onto the road.

They drove in silence for the first fifteen minutes or so, until Michael could hear light, even breathing that told him Sucre and Maricruz were asleep too. He sighed lightly, and looked over at Sara. She was looking at him.

He smiled. She looked so beautiful to him. Even in the dimming light, every feature seemed so refined, so beautiful, so perfect. "I've missed our little visits over the last few days," he said. "The infirmary visits, I mean."

Sara gasped. "Your diabetes!" she said. "You haven't been—"

She cut herself off as Michael chuckled.

"You never were a diabetic, were you?" she asked. He didn't answer, but she nodded to herself and said, "Right," as if he had.

"I always knew I'd need to get into the infirmary on a daily basis," Michael said. "I didn't know that after awhile, I'd…want to. To see you."

"I tested your blood sugar," she said. It was almost a protest.

"Pugnac," he replied. "An insulin blocker. C-Note got it for me." He left out the rest of that story; she didn't need to know everything, after all.

Sara shook her head. "Michael Scofield," she said. He could hear amazement, and amusement, and something else in her voice. He smiled at her.

"It turned out okay, didn't it?" he said.

"Well, I guess that depends on your definition of okay," Sara said.

"Lincoln's alive. We're together. Sucre and Maricruz are together. I think that's okay." He could hear that he sounded serious.

Sara's hand touched his knee. "Yeah," she said. "I guess I'd call that okay too."

He noted a city name, but it didn't help him. "I still don't know where we are," he said. "We never bought a map, did we?"

"I was asleep too," Sara said. "I don't know."

Michael knew Sucre well enough to say no, they hadn't. He'd likely just driven south, figuring that no matter what, they'd end up in Panama sooner or later. Which was both true and false. Getting lost wouldn't help.

"Gas station," Sara said, pointing. "We can get a map."

Michael thought for a moment. "Yeah. Okay," he said. He pulled into the parking lot. There weren't as many gas stations down here as there were in the States anyway; they should take advantage.

Michael turned off the car and looked into the back. No one stirred.

"You get the map. I'll fill up the tank," Sara said. "I don't speak enough Spanish to guarantee I'd get the right map!"

Michael smiled. "All right," he said. He grabbed his backpack off the floor between Sara's feet and pulled it onto his back as he climbed out of the car.

As he walked up to the gas station, his eyes noticed so many things. They were either in a bad part of town…or this town was just made of bad sides. He saw an uncapped hypodermic needle on the ground, surrounded by trash. The windows were smeared and smudged to the point they were hard to see through. A young woman, dressed in trashy clothes, was leaning against the wall of the gas station, smoking a cigarette. She stood up for a moment, but when Michael showed no interest, she slouched again and took another drag.

The inside wasn't much better. Everything was dirty, and there was a strange smell in the air, like mildew and must. Michael noted a rack of maps to the left of the door, but he had other needs he had to take care of before that.

He went into the bathroom. It was disgusting too; the smell was unbelievable. His eyes lit on a teenage boy, standing in the corner. His heart twinged, and he looked away. He knew why that kid was camped out in here, and he didn't want to think about it.

"Hey mister," the kid said softly in Spanish. "You like what you see?" He sounded tired, and Michael couldn't help but flash back, ever so briefly, to another day, when that kid was him.

Standing around, waiting, knowing if he waited long enough, there would be a guy who would offer him money, and he could take that money and buy some food…and it would only take a little bit of his time, only a little of his body…only a little of his soul.

"I could be a cop, kid," he replied in Spanish. "I wouldn't go making offers like that." His voice came out harsher than he'd intended.

"No. You aren't," the boy said, sounding sure. Michael zipped up his jeans and walked over to the sink, ignoring him. He started to wash his hands.

He heard the kid's footsteps approaching. "Come on, mister. I'll make it worth your while," he said, his tone wheedling. Michael felt the boy reaching for him, and he spun around, putting his hands out to stop him.

"Don't," he said, catching his wrists with wet hands. The kid flinched, and Michael saw himself, for a moment, in the kid's eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just don't touch me," he said.

"Okay," the kid said. Michael released him, and wiped his hands on his jeans. He kept looking at the boy, who was watching him warily.

He thought of their money situation. They needed it…but this kid, and he was a kid, probably only fourteen or fifteen, needed it too. "You hungry?" he asked the boy.

"Why?" the kid asked. His eyes suddenly shifted. "I don't do that kind of shit, man."

Michael sighed. "I don't want you to do anything," he said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar American bill. "Here."

The kid looked at him, then the money. He snatched it, tucking it away before Michael could even blink. "You're an American?" the boy asked.

"Yeah," Michael said.

"You speak Spanish good, for an American," the boy noted. "I'll give you something special, then," the boy said, and suddenly he was dropping to his knees. It was Michael's turn to flinch, and he pulled away.

"Don't," he said again. "Just buy yourself something to eat."

He turned and walked out of the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kid, still kneeling on the atrociously dirty floor, looking a little confused. The door shut, and finally, Michael could breathe again.

He saw Sara standing by the maps, hugging her ribs. He strode over to her. "You okay?" she asked as he approached.

"Yeah," he said. "Why?"

"You look…upset," she said.

Michael shook his head. "Let's get a map," he said. "Get out of here."

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked as he quickly looked through the maps. It didn't take him long to find the one they needed.

"Yeah. Let's get this and go," he said. He took it up to the counter, where a bored looking man was standing. He rang them up, and Michael handed him a bill.

"You don't have any local money?" the man asked, studying the American bill.

"No," Michael said. "We're just passing through."

The man sighed. "I don't know the exchange rate," he grumbled.

"Keep the change, then," Michael said. He wanted to leave, now. He grabbed Sara's hand and switched back to English. "Come on, Sara."

They left the store. Michael was clutching the map so hard it was wrinkling in his hand, but he couldn't seem to stop. Why? Why was his past coming back to haunt him now, when everything was starting to go according to plan? They were nearly to Panama, Lincoln was safe, he had Sara, Sucre and Maricruz were together, and everything was going to be alright. So why were his old, old secrets determined to escape, to bite him? He didn't understand.

"Michael, do you want me to drive?" Sara asked.

"No, it's okay," he said.

"You seem kind of distracted," she said. He could hear concern in her voice.

"I'm fine," he said. He let go of her hand and got back in the car, starting it.

After a moment, she got in too. "Okay," she said. "But…"

He forced himself to swallow, to breathe, to turn to her and give her a small smile. "It's okay, Sara," he said.

Her eyes locked on his. She was reading him, he could feel it. But finally, she nodded. He could tell she wasn't convinced. She didn't believe him. But as long as she let it go, it didn't matter.

He sighed, and pulled back onto the road. He was lying to her. He wasn't really fine. He knew it. She knew it. But they'd both pretend. For now, at least.

Michael planned on pretending forever.


	66. Chapter 66

Lincoln saw a sign. Bienvenidos a Panamá, it read. He might not speak Spanish, but he did recognize the word 'Panama'. He let out a hoot.

"We've made it, guys!" he said.

Next to him, Michael stirred. "What?" he asked.

"Panama! We've crossed the border!" Lincoln crowed.

In the backseat, Sara, Sucre, and Maricruz were all sitting forward. "We're there?" Sucre asked.

"Yeah, man!" Lincoln said. He honked the horn once for emphasis.

"So we're safe now, right?" Sucre asked.

"No extradition laws," Michael replied. "Don't do anything illegal and you'll be fine."

"Way to put out a party, Papi," Sucre said, but he was grinning. Maricruz elbowed him in the stomach, and he grunted.

"Just kidding, Mami! My days of illegal activity are over for good. I'm gonna be a dad now! And you're gonna be my wife. Straight and narrow for me," he said.

"Yeah, tell your Tia Lupe that," Maricruz said. "I'm sure she'd believe it."

"You talked to Tia Lupe?" Sucre asked, sounding startled. "Don't listen to her, Mari! She's crazy!"

"I'll tell her you said that," Maricruz said.

"Ai, Mami. You trying to get me in trouble?" he asked. Lincoln let their playful bickering fade into the background as he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"So we're okay now," he said, confirming it to himself.

"Yeah," Michael said. He turned and grinned at him. "We're okay."

Lincoln grinned back, knowing he looked like an idiot but not caring. He wanted to grab Michael and crush him in a hug; to thank him for all he'd sacrificed, all he'd done, so Lincoln could be here. Could be alive, in Panama on this day, rather than buried in the cold ground. "Thank you," he said.

He saw Michael's eyes. He got it. Michael clapped his hand on Lincoln's shoulder and squeezed. "I told you to have a little faith, didn't I?" he said. "We're okay now."

Lincoln nodded. It was strange, to be on this side of the equation. Usually, he was the one attempting to play savior. When they were younger, he'd tried to save Michael from so much: schoolyard bullies, cruel foster parents, even himself. And he'd often failed. But Michael had succeeded. He'd saved Lincoln.

"So," Lincoln said, settling back into the seat. "Where are we headed?"

Michael pulled the map out of the glove compartment. "We're on the right road," he said. "Just keep driving."

"I'm assuming you have an end destination in mind?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. "The Christina Rose."

Lincoln cocked his head. "What?" he asked, not sure if he'd heard right. That was their mother's name.

"A boat," he explained. "I named it after her."

"After who?" Sara said, startling him. For a moment, he'd forgotten about her.

"Our mother," Michael said after a second. Lincoln saw him look back at Sara; the look in her eyes was understanding, kind. Her hand gently touched Michael's shoulder, but she didn't say anything.

"She'd be proud of you, Michael," Lincoln said seriously. He wished he was good with words, like Michael was, but he wasn't, so he just had to wing it..

Michael laughed dryly. "I think she'd probably have a few words for me," he said.

"You saved my life, man," Lincoln said.

"Which I wouldn't have had to do, if it wasn't for me," Michael replied. "No, that was just fair of me."

"Bullshit," Lincoln said.

"I owed you," Michael replied.

"What?" Lincoln said. He was astounded, yet again, at the way Michael's brain worked. "You didn't owe me a damn thing, Michael!"

"Now who's talking bullshit?" Michael replied. There was some heat in his words. "After everything you did for me? I did owe you. Without all that money, this conspiracy, this would be someone else's problem. Not ours. So I did owe you!"

Lincoln couldn't believe this. He pulled the car to the side of the road. "Wait a second. You did all this…all this," and Lincoln gestured at Michael's tattoo-covered arms, the car, their silent friends, "because you thought you owed me?" He could hear how loud his voice was getting, but he was upset, damn it. "You didn't owe me anything, Michael! You could have just let me die!"

Michael's eyes flared, and he grabbed Lincoln's shirt, cocking his fist back. "Don't say that!" he hissed. "Don't you fucking say that!"

Lincoln could see tears glittering in Michael's eyes, and he knew he'd been stupid again.

"Michael," he said.

Michael's hands were shaking. Lincoln felt sick to his stomach. He just wanted to calm him down, to tell him he hadn't meant it, to bring things back to normal. He sighed. "You gonna hit me, Michael?" he asked calmly. He doubted it; Michael had never been violent.

Michael released his shirt and dropped his hand. "I did this for you, you asshole," he said, glaring fiercely at him. "Not because I owed you. Because you didn't do it, and I wasn't about to let you die for something you didn't fucking do."

"I know," Lincoln replied. He bit his lip. "Sorry."

Michael didn't say anything. Lincoln sighed. As usual, he'd done something wrong, and he didn't know how to fix it. He started the car again, and looked in the rearview mirror. Three anxious faces stared back at him. Shit. What a time and place for that fight.

He pulled back onto the road. "Michael, I didn't mean…all I meant was that you didn't owe me anything. No matter what. I only did that so you could have the future you deserved, okay? This was not part of that plan, that's all I meant."

"The future I deserved," Michael echoed. He sounded bitter. "The future I deserved did not involve Loyola and a master's degree, Lincoln. No; I'd say ending up in Fox River was probably more the future I deserved."

"Michael," Lincoln said. He ignored the audience in the backseat; this conversation had to happen, and if not now, it probably wouldn't. "You know that's not true—"

"You don't know," Michael replied softly, almost too softly for Lincoln to hear.

"What do you mean, I don't know? I know that you were a good kid, a smart kid, and that you did well for yourself despite all the shit—"

Michael glared at him with eyes like daggers, and Lincoln cut himself off. He'd forgotten that Maricruz and Sara didn't know about Michael's past, and that likely, Michael would want it to stay that way. Damn it, he was doing it again. Fucking up. He tried once more to make it right.

"I'd planned it, okay? I'd planned to do that for you, even though I didn't know how I was going to pay it back. And that was my choice, not yours." Lincoln said quietly after a moment of silence.

The silence stretched on for a long, awkward moment.

"I can't believe you actually had a plan," Michael said finally with a snort.

Was that a joke? Lincoln shot a glance at his brother. He was smirking.

"You're such a shit, Michael," he said, but he allowed himself to relax a little. If Michael was joking, everything was probably okay again. Or would be. Eventually.

"You need to turn here," Michael said, and his voice sounded normal again.

"Left or right?" Lincoln asked.

"Right," Michael replied.

Lincoln felt, rather than heard, a sigh of relief from the backseat. The conversation could wait until later. Without the peanut gallery.

He saw a city coming up ahead and pressed harder on the gas. "Our first Panamanian city," he remarked.

"Yep," Michael said. "The Christina Rose is docked there."

"Your boat is docked here?" Sara said. "Why here? I thought you said it was in Panama!" She sounded relieved to be speaking again, Lincoln noticed. Well, he was relieved too, to be honest.

"The country, not the city," Michael said. "The plan is to sail to the city."

Lincoln shook his head. "Do you even know how to sail, Michael?" he asked.

"I've read about it," Michael replied. "I can figure it out."

"Shit. Well, this should be interesting," Sucre said. "We're all gonna end up drowning or something."

"Don't even say that, 'Nando!" Maricruz said. "It's got to be bad luck."

"Just follow this road, Linc," Michael said. "According to the maps, it runs straight to the docks."

Lincoln nodded, and continued to drive, barely noticing the city as it sprang up around them. "We're almost there," he said.

"Almost there," Michael affirmed.


	67. Chapter 67

"We need a ring, man," Sucre said.

"We can get one," Michael said.

"No…can we get one now? I want to marry her, man. And she deserves a ring, you know?" He was practically begging Michael to understand.

Luckily, Michael smiled and clapped him on the back. "I bet there's a pawn shop in this town," he said. "Want to go find a ring?"

"Gracias, Papi!" he said, throwing his arms around Michael. "Thank you so much, man!"

When he released him, Michael was smiling. "No problem, man. Get your girl. We'll all go."

It wasn't a good part of town, Sucre knew that much. He'd grown up in a crappy part of Chicago; well, this was a crappy part of wherever-the-fuck. "Are you sure we're in the right place, man?" he asked in soft Spanish, pulling Maricruz closer.

"I asked a local," Michael replied. "He said they have the best selection. It might be a little…hot, though."

Sucre nodded. "Don't tell Mari that, huh? Last thing she needs is to know her ring once belonged to some unlucky tourist."

"I assume that's why we're having this conversation in Spanish," Michael replied astutely.

"Too damn smart, Papi," Sucre replied.

"Can you guys please speak English?" Lincoln said. "Christ."

"Sorry," Michael said. "We're close, I think."

Sucre looked around. The streets were looking shadier, and he knew that most of what was bought and sold around here was drugs and sex. "You're loco, Papi," he said. "You better be right."

"Have some faith," Michael said. "Have I led you wrong yet?"

Well, Sucre had to concede he hadn't. "Alright," he said, sighing.

Michael stopped suddenly. "Here," he said.

Sucre looked around. "You're kidding," he said, looking at a dirty, bar-covered window. "This is the store?".

"Michael, that shop's the size of a closet," Sara said.

"A small one," Maricruz added.

"Heard it has the best selection in town," Michael replied. He peered inside, through the barred door. "Uh…listen. I think I'll stay out here. I'm going to get claustrophobic."

"I'll stay here too," Lincoln said, his eyes landing on a woman in the distance. Sucre shook his head; did he really not know that girl was a hooker? Well, whatever. He'd find it out soon enough.

"Come on, Mami," he said. "Let's find you a ring."

"Sara, come with us," Maricruz said.

"Oh, I couldn't," she said.

"Help me choose," Maricruz wheedled. Sucre thought he saw something in his girl's eyes. Was she conniving? He raised an eyebrow at her, and she winked. "Come on, it'll be fun," she said.

"Well," Sara said, "okay."

Sucre opened the door. "After you, ladies," he said, leaving Lincoln and Michael outside on what passed for a sidewalk.

Michael sighed and leaned against the side of the shop. He was tired, but he couldn't blame Sucre for being excited to finally marry Maricruz, not after he'd been waiting for such a long time. "Maybe we can scrounge up enough money to get them a hotel room for a night?" he said to Lincoln. "As a wedding gift?" 

"Sure," Lincoln said. Michael knew right away that Lincoln wasn't listening. "I'll be right back, okay?" 

"Yeah," Michael said, sighing. He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. It was beautiful, sunny and warm. He decided to take off his sweatshirt; he was going to boil up if he didn't.

Quickly, he pulled it over his head, yanking his shirt back down. He folded the sweatshirt restlessly, and turned to look into the store. Sara and Maricruz were leaning over the counter, obviously oohing over a ring. Michael smiled.

"Hey! Pretty boy!" a voice called in Spanish.

Michael's head turned before he could stop himself. His eyes met black ones, belonging to a man who was taller and squarer than he. He looked away, trying to pretend he hadn't reacted.

The man wasn't fooled. "You weren't who I was calling, but you'll do," he said. "You fit the bill, don't you?"

Michael ignored him, mentally cursing himself. Stupid. He wasn't 'Pretty' anymore, or any derivative thereof. And yet he'd still answered to that moniker. Shit.

"Hey, boy," the man said, coming closer. "Don't ignore me. Look at me."

Michael didn't move. The man was within arms reach now. He reached for Michael, who stepped out of the way. "Don't touch me," Michael said coldly. Where the fuck was Linc?

"He does speak," the man said. "Look at you. You are a pretty one, aren't you? Green eyes…those aren't too common around here."

Michael clenched his teeth. "Leave me alone," he said, looking past the man's shoulder.

"How much do you want?" the man asked.

Michael's chest tightened, and his blood ran cold. "I'm not for sale," he said. This was like his worst nightmare; his past staring him in the face, when everyone he cared about was right here to see it.

"Come on boy," the man replied. "I'll pay premium, for something as exotic as you. You've got pretty eyes."

Michael forced himself not to flinch at that tone, so like T-Bag's, so like so many others. The man took a step closer, and Michael inched backwards, flattening himself against the wall.

"You look scared," the man noted, and he sounded like he was relishing it. "Don't worry. I'm not a cop—"

"I said I'm not for sale," Michael repeated. He heard his teeth squeak, but he couldn't seem to loosen his jaw. His heart was beating hard and fast in his chest. "Get the fuck away from me."

"Feisty," the man said. "I'm okay with that." He grabbed Michael's arm hard and yanked. "Come here, boy."

Michael froze, for just a split second. This wasn't happening. Why the fuck was this happening? He felt paralyzed.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Lincoln. Michael broke away from the man. "Leave me alone," he said, and turned to his brother, who was running towards them, looking like he wanted to kill. "It's okay, Linc! It's okay. Don't be stupid; if you get arrested—"

He got in his brother's way. Lincoln tried to push him out of the way. "What the fuck was he doing to you, Michael?" Lincoln yelled.

"Shh!" Michael said. "I'm fine, okay. Stop it!"

"Is that your American sugar daddy?" the man asked, spitting contemptuously in the sand at their feet.

"What's he saying?" Lincoln asked.

"Nothing," Michael said. "It's fine." He stayed between Lincoln and the other man. "Just leave, damn it," he hissed at the man who'd been trying to buy him. "I told you I wasn't for sale."

"Well, pretty boy, when he gets sick of you, I'll take sloppy seconds," the man said, grinning sickly.

"He's not my fucking sugar daddy," Michael said. "Get out of here, before I let him beat the shit out of you."

"Big words," the man said. He started to walk backwards. "He won't always be there, boy. You'll be sorry you crossed me when he's gone."

"What is he saying?" Lincoln demanded again, making another attempt to shove past Michael.

"Don't worry about it," Michael said.

"See you later, pretty boy," the man said, and then he turned and disappeared around a corner.

Michael took a deep breath. Then he flinched as Lincoln grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake.

"Michael, what the fuck was that?" he asked. "I turned away for a minute, and I turn back to see you…getting in a fight with some random guy? What the hell?"

"It's nothing," Michael said.

"Nothing? Some guy just decides to…what the hell, Michael? Are you okay? What was he doing?" Lincoln sounded pissed, and confused. The enormity of what had just happened hit Michael.

He couldn't get away from it. No matter where he ran; even here, in Panama, thousands of miles away from his misspent youth, it was like he had a sign on his back. What was it? How did these things keep finding him?

"Michael? Michael!" Lincoln said. "Fucking hell, man. Answer me." He could hear the anger in Lincoln's voice, that masked his concern. "What was that?"

Michael just shook his head, wracked with self-loathing and a feeling of being marked. Suddenly, behind him, he heard Sucre's voice.

"We found it, Papi!" he crowed.

Thank God, Michael thought. He forced everything that had just occurred to the back of his mind, turned and grinned at Sucre.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Si," Sucre replied. He grabbed Maricruz's hand. "Don't suppose you know where there's a courthouse around here?"

Michael chuckled. "I think we're in the wrong part of town for that," he said as Sara walked up to him and slipped her hand in his. "Come on. Let's go."

He could feel Lincoln watching him, noting his sudden transition, noticing everything for once. But it couldn't be helped. So he ignored it, and started walking, praying that Lincoln would just let it go.


	68. Chapter 68

"You're glowing," Sara said.

Maricruz couldn't help it. She'd never been so happy in her life. "I'm married!" she said, holding out her hand. The ring glittered prettily. "Oh, 'Nando, we're married now!"

"Si, Mami," he said. "I promised, didn't I?"

He leaned down and kissed her again, and she melted. Why did the kissed feel different, now that they were married? Not that she was complaining; it was wonderful. Magical. She felt like the princess in a fairy tale. A Disney one, not one of those awful Grimm Brother's tales.

"Where'd Michael go?" Fernando asked, looking around. "We should have some champagne, or something! We need to celebrate!"

"He's getting your gift," Sara said, and she was beaming. "Come on!"

"What? You guys got us a gift?" Maricruz asked. She couldn't believe this. She hadn't even known these people a week ago, and now…now, they were almost like family. It brought tears to her eyes.

"Well, I think it's a gift for us too," Lincoln said. "That way we don't have to listen to you honeymooners. The Christina Rose isn't that big, as you've seen."

Fernando flipped him off. "Pendejo," he said, but he was still grinning.

Maricruz blushed. "I don't understand," she said.

"Come on!" Sara repeated. "You have to come with us!" She started to walk. Lincoln followed her.

"Okay, okay," Fernando said. "Come on, Mami. You heard them." He gave her waist a tug.

They didn't have to walk very far. Sara led them into a hotel. Maricruz felt her eyes widening. It wasn't the most beautiful, or the most exorbitant, but hey, she was getting a honeymoon. Not bad.

Michael was standing in the lobby with Maricruz's suitcase and a paper bag, grinning. "Congratulations, guys," he said, handing Fernando the key. "Room 220. It has a balcony."

Fernando laughed, and said something in Spanish that cracked Michael up. He replied, grinning. Maricruz made another note to herself to learn Spanish as soon as possible. "What's so funny, 'Nando?" she asked.

"You don't want to know, Mami," he replied. "Come on."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," she replied.

"Trust him, Maricruz," Michael said, still smiling. "Inside joke."

She looked at those green eyes that sparkled at her. "Okay," she said finally. "Thank you, Michael. Sara, Lincoln. We really appreciate this."

"Yeah," Fernando said, tugging on her. "Come on!"

She laughed as he pulled her out of the lobby and to the stairs with an astounding eagerness. "I'm still the same girl, you know!" she said.

"Yeah," Fernando said. "I know. But now you're my girl, officially. No one can take you away. And that is a cause for celebration."

She'd never, ever felt so cherished.

"Well, they're excited," Lincoln said, smirking.

"Sour grapes," Sara said.

"Excuse me?" he replied.

"Don't be sour grapes," she answered.

Lincoln laughed. "Hardly. But speaking of grapes…well, kind of…is there a bar in this hotel?"

Michael sighed, thinking of the small amount of money they had left. "We don't have a lot of cash left, Lincoln."

"Enough to buy me and the lady a drink?" he asked.

"25 cent beer," he replied. He and Sara shared a smile. He remembered that time, that seemed so long ago, talking about beers in Baja and happy hour as they crouched in the ceiling, hiding from the cons below.

"You tried so hard," Sara said, her eyes sparkling.

"And failed," he said.

"But at least you tried," she said, squeezing his hand. "I appreciated it."

Lincoln sighed. "I missed something, didn't I?"

Michael shook his head. "Nothing at all," he replied. "Come on. Let's get a drink."

"What?" Lincoln said. "You're going to drink something, Michael?" He sounded like he was joking, but Michael knew he wasn't. He didn't drink much; he didn't usually like that feeling of not having complete control. That feeling of not quite remembering, of speaking before thinking, of letting some of his inhibitions go. He had them for a reason after all; they were protective.

But today had been rough. He could still remember the feeling of that man's hand on his arm, and the way he'd looked at Michael, like a piece of meat. Like something to be bought. Again. Like so many others had looked at him. It made him feel nauseous.

Michael never wanted to see that look. Ever again.

And he figured a drink or two could possibly blur the memory enough that it didn't make him wince. Just maybe.

"We're celebrating," Michael said. "Come on." He pulled gently on Sara's arm. "We'll buy a pack; take it back to the Christina Rose."

Lincoln raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?" he asked. "You do realize that definitely increases the probability of a hangover?"

"Why not?" Michael said. "It's not like Sucre and Maricruz are gonna be back bright and early tomorrow."

Sara laughed. "Alright. Cheap beer in Panama. Sounds lovely; it's not quite 25 cent Baja beer, but it's close. Let's find some."

Michael grinned. "Let's go. I have twenty American dollars left."

"Shit. That's all?" Lincoln asked.

"Yeah," Michael said.

"What are we gonna do about that?" he asked.

Michael shook his head. "This conversation can definitely wait until we've all got a beer. Come on."


	69. Chapter 69

They bought two six packs. Not enough for Lincoln to get drunk; plenty to get both Sara and Michael bombed. Or so he figured.

But Sara was sipping at her beer, relaxing on the boat. Her feet dangled over the edge, into the water. It was becoming reflective as the darkness fell.

Lincoln had gone through two, but that was nothing. He was a big guy, and he could hold his alcohol.

But Michael…Michael was drinking.

"Whoa, man. Slow down, huh?" Lincoln said, putting his hand on Michael's shoulder as Michael reached for a fifth beer. "You're gonna be reeling pretty soon."

Michael shrugged his hand off. "Let it go, Linc," he said. His lack of coordination was noticeable.

Sara was watching them. He could see she wanted to say something, and she was holding it back. He looked at her. She shook her head softly.

"It's a beautiful sunset," Lincoln said. The words sounded forced to him, but the silence seemed heavy suddenly.

Luckily, Sara picked it up. "When I was a kid, I used to love to watch the sunsets. I'd climb out my window and sit on the roof. My mother hated it; she always thought I was going to fall and kill myself. But they always looked better from there." 

Lincoln shot her a grateful look.

"Some things just look better from a certain angle," Michael said. He was staring at the label on the bottle of beer. "You know? You look at things one way, and they seem so awful…but if you shift the angle, you can almost fool yourself into thinking it isn't so bad after all."

"I guess," Lincoln said. Michael was sounding like he was getting to the analytical stage of drunkenness. From his past experiences with a drunken Michael, Lincoln knew that could get mind-boggling.

"Yeah," Michael continued. "Like today, for example." He chuckled, but he didn't sound like he really thought anything was humorous. "You were in the store, with Sucre and Maricruz. Looking at rings," he said to Sara. "And I smiled, because it made me happy, to see you looking at rings. And I started to imagine us, looking at rings."

Sara's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't say anything. She too, seemed to understand that Michael had dropped into his own little world of analysis.

"And then…he called out, "Pretty boy." And I looked at him." Michael laughed again. "Because that's me, right? Right, Linc?"

"Sure, Michael," Lincoln said, shaking his head. He was definitely drunk.

"Yeah…that's what they all called me. Pretty. Pretty boy. Such pretty eyes. Even that first foster home, the one with the old people that you ran from…I remember how she said, "he's such a pretty boy." Pretty. And she didn't even want a piece of me. Probably the only one who never did." Michael laughed again. "I think…I think they all got a piece."

Lincoln's stomach twisted. Did Michael realize what he was saying? "Michael," he said. "Sara's here, too."

"Well, she should know. Considering that I wanted her to marry me. Until I realized…" Michael stared off into the distance, taking another drink from the bottle of beer. 

"Until you realized what, Michael?" Sara asked. Lincoln could hear her voice catch, but Michael was too far gone to notice.

"You deserve so much better, Sara," he said. "He was interested in me. Came up to me; said I wasn't who he'd been calling, but he'd take me. He liked my eyes." Michael took another drink. "He asked how much I wanted."

Lincoln inhaled sharply, feeling anger rise. "For what?" he asked. He could hear the deadly edge in his voice.

Michael laughed. "You figure it out, Linc. All those whores around? Yeah. And it was just like it used to be…except I said that I wasn't for sale. But he didn't care…they never care, do they?...and he grabbed my arm. Right here." Michael tapped his upper arm. He said something in Spanish, and laughed again. "And then you showed up, and he thought you were my 'American sugar daddy' or something…shit. It was just like the old days."

Lincoln's blood had frozen in his veins. "Just like the old days?" 

"You know, we could have used the money," Michael continued. "He would have paid a lot…something about my green eyes. Thought they were exotic. Ha."

Lincoln shot to his feet. "Jesus Christ, Michael," he hissed. "What are you saying? He was offering you money for sex, and you were going to--?"

"I wasn't gonna do nothin'," Michael said. "I didn't want it. He came up to me." He was defensive. "I wasn't gonna do nothing." Michael gulped down more beer.

"You were going to—what, exactly Michael? Steal it from him?" Lincoln asked. "He'd give you money and you'd bolt, was that the plan?"

"Didn't have a plan," Michael slurred. "And then he grabbed me, and I knew, I knew what he wanted, and I was freaked out. Couldn't move, couldn't think. Good thing you showed up, huh?"

"So what are you saying, Michael?" Lincoln demanded. "You would have let him? If I hadn't—"

"Hey, it paid the rent then, didn't it?" Michael yelled suddenly. "When you were in and out of jail all the time, and every time they sent me to another fucking foster home, someone wanted a piece of me! At least then, they paid me. I got to eat, got to sleep without some random old man or woman pushing their body against me and threatening bodily harm if I didn't give 'em what they wanted. Right? So what was the fucking difference, Linc?" He was standing now too, face to face with Lincoln. "Just a way to get some money, right? Keep a roof over our heads? Get some food? You didn't have a problem with it then!"

Lincoln wasn't breathing, hadn't breathed since Michael had said, "It paid the rent then, didn't it?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. It couldn't...couldn't possibly be true. Not Michael.

He felt his heart break as he looked into Michael's alcohol blurred eyes, and saw only anger, fear, and truth. "Michael…" he said. There was so much he wanted to say and couldn't find words for. What came out was, "Jesus, you were selling yourself?"

"Yeah, Lincoln. Your brother? He's trash. A whore. 'Cause I was fucking starving, and it was a way to get money, okay? Money, and food…paid the rent. Kept a, a fucking roof over my head. You couldn't do it! But I was 'pretty' and it paid. For our phone, our heat, our elect--, elict—tricty…" he slurred, losing the last words. "You couldn't do that!"

It hurt so much because it was true. It was another way Lincoln had failed Michael. "Michael," he said, feeling tears rise. "If I'd have known, I never would have—"

"So you hate me? Now…now that you know, you hate me, right?" Michael yelled again. Lincoln had never seen him so out of control in his entire life. "That's how I made that money, Lincoln! 'Cause I'd ran away, and it was raining, and that guy came up to me, and he offered me food, and a shower, and some money…and that was all I wanted. It wasn't like he was takin' anything anyway. Shit, at least he asked first, 'stead of throwing me down and just takin' what he wanted. And he gave me money. I got to eat that day, because of that! 'Cause I was fifteen, and fucking hungry, okay?"

Lincoln felt the tears start down his face. Fifteen. Not much younger than LJ. His stomach twisted at the thought of anyone using his brother like that. He reached for Michael, desperately wanting to take away some of that pain. That pain, that was his fault.

His brother flinched hard, as though Lincoln had raised a fist to him. He twisted away, presenting Lincoln his back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lincoln saw Sara. Her fist was pressed to her mouth, and tears were flowing down her cheeks. But right now, it was Michael who needed him.

Lincoln wrapped his arms around his brother. He could feel Michael shaking, trembling like he was about to fall apart. "Oh, Michael," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry."

Michael's body stiffened for a moment, and then he turned to face Lincoln. "What?" he slurred, tears falling down his face.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "If I would have known…Michael. Oh, God, Michael. I'm sorry."

Michael regarded him, the tears still falling. But this time, when Lincoln pulled him into a hug, he didn't flinch away. Instead, he collapsed into Lincoln's arms, sobbing. They dropped to the deck of the boat, and Lincoln held him tightly.

"Don't hate me," he heard Michael whisper. "I only did it because…" the rest was lost in Lincoln's shoulder.

"I know," Lincoln said. "I know, buddy." An affectionate nickname from their childhood, something he hadn't called Michael for years. "Shh."

He heard another sob. Sara. He looked up at her; she had her elbows propped on her knees, and her head in her hands. Her back was shuddering.

"Come on, Michael," he said finally. "You need to sleep this off." And neither Michael nor Sara needed to see any more.

Michael shook his head. "Can't sleep this off," he said. "And Sara…Sara's going to hate me. She's gonna hate me, Linc. And I love her. But she's never gonna want to see me again, 'cause I'm just trash and she's, she's so…"

"No, Michael," Sara said. "No." She sniffed hard and swiped at her face. "I love you too. You're not t-t-trash." She stood up and walked over to where they knelt, putting her hand lightly on Michael's back.

Lincoln stood, and pulled Michael to his feet. "Come on," he said, turning his brother towards the stairs. "You need to sleep this off."

Michael stopped, and stared at Sara for a moment. "Sara," he whispered. There was horror in his eyes; like he'd forgotten she was there. And now he'd said so much…Lincoln could see his features fill with even deeper self-loathing.

"Michael," she said. More tears had appeared on her face. She touched his cheek lightly. "Go to sleep, okay?"

"And I'll never see you again, right?" Michael said, sounding bitter and extremely drunk. "'Cause now…I'm not what you wanted now, right, Sara? 'Cause now you've got answers…knew you wouldn't really want them."

"I'll be here in the morning," she said. "We'll talk." Another tear ran down her cheek, catching on her lip.

"Sure," he said, turning away. Lincoln saw more tears.

"Have a little faith," she said. "I'll be here."


	70. Chapter 70

She watched Lincoln lead Michael down into the cabin of the boat. Her heart was breaking. She sat down, right there on the deck, and pulled her arms around her stomach, holding herself.

She'd watch him drink like a man running. It had made some sense to her; he was still running, in a fashion. But she hadn't known from what.

That…that would not have been her first guess. Or her fifth, or twentieth. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, prostitution? Sara wasn't stupid; she was a prison doctor; she knew these things happened. But not to a man like Michael Scofield…or so she'd thought.

She thought about what she'd read about Michael in his records. Mother died when he was seven. Nothing about foster care, nothing about any kind of abuse, and nothing about prostitution. Then again, if there was no records of those things…if nobody had known except Michael…well, there wouldn't be records.

It boggled her mind, and hurt her soul. Now, things were beginning to make sense. His disassociation. The way he always kept his back to the wall; always. That double entendre in the infirmary. It really had meant what she'd thought…in a way she'd never thought. And the mind-boggling self-hatred he possessed.

She'd always thought Michael was a very self-controlled man. She'd never realized exactly how self-controlled. What he'd said tonight; that wasn't an old fight. Lincoln had been just as astounded, as shocked, as heart-broken as she. That meant he'd been keeping that secret for years. Since fifteen. Since earlier; his remark about his foster 'parents' forcing him to make 'payments' for his food, his bed, the things they were obligated to provide him. It made her furious. And so sad. That was a long time to keep such a painful secret.

So why had he broken tonight? Alcohol? But it wasn't like Michael had never drank before; he had talked about cheap beers in Baja, after all. Anyway, she knew from her own experiences with morphine that all substances did was break down your inhibitions, and let you do or say what you'd already been dying to, in one way or another.

She heard footsteps, and turned her head. Lincoln was slowly climbing the stairs back to the deck. His face was drained and haggard looking.

He leaned against the side of the boat, supporting his weight on his arms. Sara could see his shoulders shaking.

She got to her feet. "Lincoln?" she asked cautiously.

He didn't move. She walked up to him and very cautiously put one hand on his shoulder.

"I failed him, Sara," he said bluntly. "He's right. I had no idea he was doing that, but I didn't complain when he showed up with money. When he helped me pay the bills? He told me he had a job at a vet clinic. And I didn't notice that for a kid who worked at a vet clinic, he got hurt an awful lot. Bruises, black eyes, cuts, scrapes, scratches. Did I ever put it together?"

"Why would you have, Lincoln?" she asked. "You never would have thought he'd have done something like that!"

"But if I hadn't been in and out of jail, losing my jobs over and over, always drunk and high, he never would have had to do that. If I'd just done what I was supposed to; taken care of him. And I didn't; I was selfish, and worried about my own pain, my own problems, and not Michael. Because he always seemed fine. Except he wasn't. And I should have known!" The last sentence was practically a cry.

"It isn't your fault, Lincoln," Sara said softly.

He turned and looked at her. "Whose fault is it then? Not his. He was just a kid, and being Michael, with his fucking ridiculous Michael-sense….oh God." Lincoln buried his face in his hands. "I should have known. How could I not know? I should have known he wouldn't get hurt like that working at a fucking vet clinic! " 

"Why would you have known, Lincoln?" she asked. "I've only known him for a short time, but your brother…he's pure self-control. And he's a talented actor. He'd been hiding other secrets already, right? You didn't know about his foster parents either, did you? I mean, he kept that secret for how long?"

Lincoln just shook his head. Sara couldn't tell if it was in response or in general mourning. She continued on.

"When we do things that are shameful to us, we hide them. Desperately, okay? I was hooked on morphine for three years before anyone noticed, Lincoln." The confession caught in her chest, but she pushed it out. His eyes locked on hers; she read surprise there. "He didn't want you to know what he was doing. Because he was being Michael. Trying to save everyone else, trying to fix everyone else's pain, and ignoring what he was doing to himself. Because that's what he does. Isn't it?"

Lincoln nodded. Tears flowed freely over his cheeks.

"Even now, he's not so much angry at you as angry at himself. Can't you see that? He hates himself, hates himself for what he's done. He thinks it's his fault. He doesn't see that he was just a kid, that he was doing what he had to do to survive, that no one can fault him for that. That we love him, and that doesn't change because of what he had to do when he was a kid. "

"But—" 

"It's true, isn't it?" Sara asked. "You still feel the same way about him as you always did, don't you?" She could hear the fierceness in her voice.

Lincoln's eyes met hers. "Of course," he said. "He's my brother! I love him!"

"And I love him too," Sara said softly. "He needs to know that hasn't changed."

"I just wish...oh God. I would have done so many things different," Lincoln said. "I never, ever would have let him do that. Never. I would have—"

"But we can't go back," Sara said. "It does no good to say what we would have done, had we known then what we know now. All we can do is move forward. Try to make it better from here on." Very gently, she patted Lincoln's arm.

"You're a smart one, Doc," Lincoln said quietly. "You're good for him."

Sara smiled. "I hope he still thinks so, when he wakes up tomorrow," she said.

Michael lay in the darkness, listening. Sounds traveled easily and well through the boat, and he'd heard every word they'd said.

Tears rolled over his face, and he rolled clumsily onto his side. He knew he was drunk. Why the hell had he said all those things? They'd just burst forth, spewing out like a volcanic eruption.

They didn't know he could hear them. Hell, they probably thought he was asleep. So…was what they said the truth?

Dear God, he hoped so. And he hoped that tomorrow, when he was hung over and wishing for death, he wouldn't just remember how he'd humiliated himself…

…he'd also remember what they'd said.

He shut his eyes.


	71. Chapter 71

The rocking of the boat was the first thing he noticed. The second was the rollicking nausea; the third, the headache like a jackhammer.

He lay still, breathing through his nose. He hadn't nursed many hangovers in his life; at least, not his own. But he figured it was important to breathe, at the very least.

Then again, if he stopped breathing, death would ensue. And that might be preferable to dealing with the aftermath of last night. Both physical and emotional.

"Michael?" he heard softly from his left.

Sara's voice. Next to his ear. He turned his head and immediately regretted it, as his brain rattled around agonizingly in his head. He heard himself grunt.

"I'm going to get you some aspirin and water," she said. "It'll help a little."

He felt the mattress next to him adjust, and he realized she'd been lying there. Had she slept next to him? But thinking made his head ache more, and he tried to stop.

"It'll be easier to swallow if you sit up," Sara said. She took his hand and he allowed her to help him sit upright. He moaned again, and leaned back against the wall.

"Here," she said. She pressed a glass in his hand. "And the aspirin."

He took them and put them in his extremely dry mouth. He swallowed hard, gulping at the water. Finally, after the pills were down, he opened his eyes.

She was standing in front of him, watching him. "You should drink all of that," she said, gesturing to the water. "It'll help with the dehydration."

He took another swallow of water, and felt his tongue loosen slightly. It still felt furry though. "Ugh," he groaned quietly.

"Keep drinking water," she said, in her familiar doctor tone. "A hang over is mostly dehydration, anyway."

Michael considered nodding, and then decided against it. He took another sip, and whispered, "I heard you. Last night."

Sara's eyes widened. "What?" she said.

"You and Linc. Talking. I remember." He sipped at the water again, to avoid looking into her eyes.

"I'm surprised you remember anything about last night," Sara said.

"I have a good memory." And LLI, but he figured he'd save that story for another day. "I remember what I said too." He felt his face flushing, but he couldn't control it.

"It really wasn't your fault," Sara said. Michael stayed silent. He couldn't help but disagree.

Some of it wasn't his fault. His foster parents' actions weren't his fault; and it wasn't his fault his mother had died. But some of it was.

"It wasn't, Michael," Sara repeated, as if she'd heard his thoughts. "You were a scared, desperate kid, trying to keep your world from falling apart. And it was the only way you could."

"Yeah. As a whore." The words were harsh.

"No. You'd been abused, and you already knew what that was like. So it didn't seem like that big a deal, because kids rationalize like that. Hell, adults rationalize like that. We've all done things we aren't proud of, Michael. And some of us didn't do them for reasons as noble as yours were."

He looked up at her. Her brown eyes were pleading with him.

"I've done my share of the ignoble, Michael," she said softly. "And my reasons…were purely selfish."

"You ever sell yourself, Sara? For a place to sleep, or some food?" Michael asked bitterly

"No," she said. "But before I worked at Fox River, I was a doctor at a hospital. And I stole morphine. And used it. Supplied it to my boyfriend of the time. And one day, when I was coming home from work high, there was a car accident. A boy died, Michael. And I could have saved him, but I was so out of it that I couldn't get my body to do anything. I watched him die."

He looked at her again. He could see the pain in her eyes.

"So, now's your turn, Michael," she said. "Does that change how you feel about me?"

He looked at her. She was so beautiful…and he could see that she was scared that it would. Terrified. Terrified that she might lose him. It mattered to her, what he thought. He didn't understand.

"No," he said. "It doesn't."

"Well, then, you should believe me. How I feel about you hasn't changed."

He'd almost thought he might have dreamed their acceptance the night before. It had just been an alcohol-induced hallucination; when he woke up, he was going to be alone. But it was morning, and Sara was here. And Lincoln...

"Where's Linc?" he asked.

"Still sleeping, I'm sure," Sara said. "In the other room." She gestured behind her. Michael saw a small doorway.

"And he's…"

"You heard him last night, Michael. He feels guilty as hell."

"It's not his fault," Michael said. His voice raised, and it made his head throb. He groaned again, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's not."

"And it's not yours, either," Sara said.

"Well, then, who does the blame go to, Sara?" he asked sharply.

"Why does there have to be blame, Michael? It just was. You want to blame someone? Blame the people who hurt you." Her eyes connected with his.

"And if I hadn't—"

"No, Michael," she said. She grabbed his hand. "No. It's not true."

He froze. She was holding his hand. Her smaller hand curled around his, gripping it tightly. A show of support.

It surprised the hell out of him. He was not used to people touching him, not like that. Fox River had re-awakened his expectations to be grabbed, molested, or otherwise tried for if he dropped his guard. He wasn't surprised by mundane, familial affection: his brother's occasional grips on his arms or shoulders, a pat on the back, or occasionally, one of Sucre's rib-crushing hugs. But this…

This was Sara. And her hand on his felt just like it had a few nights ago. When they'd both made love, for the first time. The same feeling. Gentle. Accepting. Not wanting more than he wanted to give, not taking, but mutually comforting. Loving.

It felt the same. After all she knew about him now, about what he'd done, she still held his hand like he was the same man she'd seen that night. That man who she'd wanted so badly. As though nothing had changed in her eyes.

"Oh, Sara," he said. He held out his arm, and she willingly fell into it, making herself comfortable at his side.

"Don't you see, Michael? We've all done things. But you're still Michael Scofield. The man I love." She still held his hand in hers, and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles "Nothing changes that."

"I love you, Sara," he said quietly into her auburn hair.

She turned her face up to him, and very gently, pressed her lips against his. He reciprocated, and as he did, a feeling of tension left his body. She meant it. She really did. Somehow, miraculously, she didn't see him as trash. She saw past the boy he'd been, to the man he was now. He'd never have to worry about being 'Pretty' with her…he'd just be Michael.

She pulled back and giggled. "I can taste stale beer on your breath," she said.

He managed to raise one eyebrow. "And?" he asked.

"It's better straight from the bottle," she replied, fighting back a grin.

"I'm never drinking again," Michael said, with as much feeling as he could muster without kicking up the worst of his headache.

"Never? Come on, Michael…I thought you promised me beer in Baja." Her voice was teasing now.

He sighed. "Well…I'm only bringing a dollar, then."

"We'll have to go during happy hour," Sara said. She settled against his shoulder.

"Mmm," he replied. He shut his eyes.

"And get a hammock…" she continued.

"Careful," he warned. "I'm awfully nauseous."

"Want some more water?" she asked.

"Not really," he said.

"It'll help, Michael," she replied, her doctor voice coming into play again.

"All right, Doc," he replied. She pinched his side, very gently.

"Now, you just sound like Lincoln," she said.

"Not kind," Michael said, opening one eye to look at her reprovingly. "That's hitting below the belt, Sara."

She got up and filled his glass with more water. "Drink," she said.

He took it from her and gulped it down. "Happy?" he asked, handing it back to her.

She smiled, and went all the way to her beautiful brown eyes. "Yes," she replied, snuggling in next to Michael again. "I am."

Michael felt a smile curl his lips as he shut his eyes again.

They drifted off to sleep together.


	72. Chapter 72

Lincoln heard footsteps above his head, and he stirred. "Hello?" he called.

"We're back, Papi!" Sucre called.

"What time is it?" Lincoln asked, getting up off the small mattress where he'd slept. He climbed the steps to the deck.

"It's noon," Maricruz said. She was smiling, her arm hooked around Sucre's waist. "You were still sleeping?"

"Didn't go to sleep until late last night," Lincoln said.

"We brought lunch," Maricruz said, holding out a paper bag. "Where's Sara and Michael?"

"They're asleep," Lincoln said.

Sucre raised an eyebrow. "Asleep, huh?" he asked, smirking.

"I think so," Lincoln said.

"We're awake, actually," Michael's voice came from the doorway to the cabin. He climbed out first, followed by Sara. "We couldn't sleep with the racket you were all making."

Lincoln noticed their clasped hands. So they'd obviously talked things over somehow. They were on solid ground. Something like that. Which was good.

Now Lincoln and Michael had to talk.

Michael's eyes met his cautiously. Lincoln could see worry there. He tried to smile at his brother. "Hey man. It's okay," he said quietly.

"You hungry, Papi?" Sucre asked, pointing at the paper bag Maricruz was clutching. "We brought food."

Michael groaned lightly, and Lincoln swore he turned slightly green. "I'm okay," he said.

"You never eat, Michael!" Maricruz said.

"He drank too much last night," Sara said.

"You drank? I'm sorry I missed it," Sucre said.

"No. You're not." Michael's voice was dry. "Really."

Sucre said something in Spanish, and Michael replied, shaking his head lightly. Sucre laughed.

"Oh, Papi," he said.

"Damn you both and your stupid Spanish," Lincoln said. "Let's eat, huh?"

"I'm up for it," Sara said, taking the bag from Maricruz.

"We'll set it up," Maricruz said. "Have to be a good wife, now." She winked, and squealed as Sucre swatted playfully at her, chasing her away. "Come on, Sara. Help me out!"

He saw Sara squeeze Michael's hand lightly before following Maricruz. He noticed Michael's smile; yes, they were all right.

"Michael?" he asked.

"Yeah?" Michael said. He didn't look at Lincoln.

"Michael…" Lincoln cursed his own inability to use words. "Please. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Michael sounded surprised. "What are you sorry about?" He sounded defensive.

"If I would have known, Michael," he said. "Please. I wouldn't have taken that money. We could have found another way. I wouldn't have let you—"

"Wouldn't have let me?" Michael asked. "It wasn't your choice, Linc!" Now he looked angry. "That was my choice. What did it hurt? It wasn't like I hadn't done it before, more times than I could count."

"But it shouldn't have been! That wasn't your fault, Michael. What those bastards did to you wasn't your fault at all; don't you know that? You were just a kid."

Michael's face was reddening; Lincoln couldn't tell from what.

"Michael, please," Lincoln said. "I just…will you ever forgive me? I'm so sorry." He didn't know what to do with his hands; after a moment, he shoved them into his pockets, watching Michael out of the corner of his eye.

"Forgive you?" Michael echoed. Lincoln's stomach dropped.

"I know it's a lot to ask. Maybe not yet, but one day…" Lincoln stopped talking. He couldn't read Michael's expression, and it frightened him.

"Or not. I don't know, man. It's up to you," Lincoln said awkwardly. "But you should know how sorry I am, Michael."

Michael grabbed his shirt, surprising him. That was a Lincoln move, not a Michael one. "You fucking idiot," Michael said, and then he pulled Lincoln into a hug. "You never get it, do you?"

Lincoln's arms automatically wrapped around his brother. "Huh?" he said, his brain lagging behind.

"You're not the one who needs forgiveness, you moron," Michael said quietly.

"Well, neither are you, Michael," he said. This he knew. He felt Michael's shoulders relax, and he realized for once, he might have said something right.

Lincoln and Michael released each other at the same time. "So…" Lincoln said, not quite sure how to phrase his question. Michael's eyes met his.

"It's the past," Michael said. This time, he didn't sound strained, stressed, or haunted. It was just a statement. And that was good.

"If you need…anything," Lincoln said. Again, with the awkwardness.

"I know," Michael replied. "As always."

Lincoln nodded. "All right," he said. He patted Michael's shoulder. "Let's get some food into you, huh?"

"Uh," Michael said, wrapping his arms protectively around his stomach, "I'm not sure about that…"

"Come on, Michael. Nothing for a hangover like bacon and butter and—" Lincoln teased, enjoying watching Michael's face turn green.

"Shut the fuck up, Lincoln," Michael said through gritted teeth. "I was always nice to you when you had a hangover."

"Whatever. I still remember that breakfast in bed you tried—" Lincoln said.

Michael looked nauseated. "If I would have known—I was only thirteen, Linc. I'd never had a hangover at that age. Anyway, I think cleaning up after you was punishment enough!"

"Probably," Lincoln agreed.

"Hey!" Sara's voice drifted over to them. "Food's ready!"

Michael groaned again, but turned. "Come on, Linc," he said. "If I have to eat it, you have to."

"I want to eat it," Lincoln replied. "I'm hungry." His stomach growled loudly, as if to confirm.

"Don't you have a hangover?" Michael asked.

"You were the only one who did significant drinking last night," Lincoln said. "I stopped at two."

"Everything works for you, doesn't it, Linc?" Michael asked.

Lincoln smiled. "Lately, I guess it has," he said, nudging his brother with his elbow. "It's your fault, though."

"Last time I do something nice for you," Michael grumbled, joking.

"I think I've gotten my fill." And indeed, looking at the happiness all around him; Sara and Michael, Maricruz and Sucre, the Christina Rose and the deep blue waters, he couldn't think of much that would make it nicer.

Well…he'd like to see Vee. But other than that, it was perfect.

"So, what's the plans for today, Papi?" Sucre asked.

Michael grinned. "I think we'll do some sailing," he said.

"Sailing," Sucre echoed. "Are you sure we can do this?"

Michael cocked his head to the side, grabbing Sara's hand. "Have some faith," he said.

Sucre took a deep breath, whispered something under his breath, and crossed himself. "All right, Papi. You crazy motherfucker."

Lincoln laughed first, but everyone else wasn't far behind.

It was going to be okay.


End file.
